Maxwell Street

Mad World, page 10

2010-10-13T08:58:00.000-07:00

Mad World, page 9

2010-10-11T06:59:00.001-07:00

Mad World, page 8

2010-10-08T09:33:00.000-07:00

Mad World, page 7

2010-10-07T13:12:00.000-07:00

Mad World, page 6

2010-10-06T05:37:00.001-07:00

Mad World, page 5

2010-10-05T18:08:00.000-07:00

Music and meaning

2010-09-30T05:46:00.000-07:00

I read this article on NPR’s website this morning, and was initially curious, then disappointed, and then compelled to write. A father seeks to give his daughter the albums that “get you through adolescence.” Upon skimming the list, and even upon finding many musicians I loved, I wondered—where are the women? Like Susan Douglas writes in ’95, in Where the Girls Are: “I’m a fan of all these guys, but I can’t help noticing that no comparable celebratory tributes have been made to Laura Nyro, Joni Mitchell, or Aretha Franklin (6).” And in my head, I added more to this list, bringing my list into the immediate present with Anaïs Mitchell, who I just saw live in Turners Falls last week. But something else was bothering me.

It’s just like adults, self-centered adults, to assume that we can impose on our children the same realities, the same experience, the same loves just by giving them the same albums that meant so much to us. Our love for our music is bound to time, and place and experience. Nothing can reproduce the feeling I had, riding around in Aileen’s first beat-up car, with Country Joe and the Fish blasting. At once I felt free and rebellious, and at the same time I squirmed, wondering whether someone in conservative Eastern Tennessee would get belligerent about Vietnam, and pick a fight with us. Nothing can reproduce the feeling of listening to John Coltrane’s Stellar Regions for the first time in the middle of the night in a dorm room on the South Side of Chicago. And even though I don’t care about these guys anymore, the songs of Blur, Oasis, and Weezer that my friends put on my mix tapes will still resonate, even when these songs feel hopelessly dated.

The fact is, kids have to find music on their own. I’m not saying that the daughter in question won’t cherish these albums—but that it can’t be forced. The moment dictates the feeling. I’ve known this for a long time, as an historian. I’ve long been an amateur historian, in the true sense: I do it for love. I go to the places my mother and father lived—look at their apartments, their houses their schools. I drive into the Bronx looking for the boulevard my mother walked up, holding her grandfather’s hand. The street is working-class, seedy and lovely, as it must have been then too.

I have in my hand an album of hers: The Cardinal (film by Otto Preminger, score by Jerome Moross). From inside the album, a piece of math homework falls out, done for a class at a Catholic school in Salt Lake City. The music, of course, is wonderful. But this is not an album of my adolescence. Even though I love the music, the feelings it evokes are wistful. Why? Because for me, it evokes a time that I know about, but never experienced. A wish, perhaps, that I could know how my mother felt on the edge of the West, in a sleepy city, in the middle of a decade where, everywhere else, the world was on fire. But I can’t know these things—not even when I listen to her old Rod McKuen or Glenn Yarborough records. No matter how much we love the past (our own, or someone else’s), we are each required to live our lives in the present, never knowing what’s coming next.

Mad World, page 4

2010-09-15T15:41:00.001-07:00

Mad World, page 3

2010-09-14T18:42:00.001-07:00

Mad World, page 2

2010-09-13T13:40:00.001-07:00

Mad World, page 1

2010-09-12T17:58:00.000-07:00

Beyond the Pass

2010-09-12T17:54:00.000-07:00

Beyond the Pass is an economic history of the Qing’s dealings with, conquest of, and maintenance of empire in Central Asia, or Xinjiang, from the mid-18th to the mid-19th centuries. While the majority of the book examines trade relationships, Beyond the Pass also discusses the rationales given for maintaining a struggling or costly territory, and also Chinese perceptions of the land itself as romantic, foreign, barbaric, or even familiar. As a preface to this discussion, Millward has written an engaging historiography of the field, which skewers some of the icons of historical writing on China, including John King Fairbank, Owen Lattimore and William Skinner. Millward expresses dismay at the treatment of Inner Asia as secondary or peripheral to China’s interests, particularly given the Qing government’s emphasis on conquest and maintenance of empire there, at the expense of its borders in other places, and in the face of losses of control to the west (5). More importantly, perhaps, these authors are critiqued for their frameworks of understanding China’s relationship with its territories and ethnicities.

Millward begins in almost a narrative fashion with Qi Yunshi’s journey northwest to Xinjiang, and his preconception of the terrain there, in comparison with his actual findings. Millward brings this idea full-circle in his final chapter, by using Han Dynasty poetry about Xinjiang, and a modern “Xinjiang folksong” to illustrate perceptions of the area as foreign in varying ways. Even though Beyond the Pass is not a cultural history, Millward considers this perception of the terrain because the use of “terrain” in the division of China from Inner Asia has been so crucial to the arguments of Millward’s historical predecessors. This book is a re-examination of widely held ideas of assimilation into Chinese culture (Sinification), and a hierarchical and concentric system of tribute surrounding a central Chinese entity.

I was puzzled, at first, by the harshness of Millward’s accusations of prior historians Fairbank, Lattimore and Skinner, until I realized that Millward is taking issue with a very specific subgenre of literature on China—specifically, the social histories and economic analyses that had been written in the early to mid-20th century. These social and economic histories that Millward is challenging are distinct from other histories of the Qing by virtue of their closeness with social science. The social scientist’s outlook on China, particularly when examining the 19th century, would be overwhelmingly an attempt to explain the (perceived?) failure of Qing China to adequately respond to the intrusion of the west. This framework of response, and its focus on Western-Chinese relations may be a specific characteristic of 20th century American scholarship on China. Millward and others, at the end of the 20th century, find this model incomplete and possibly misguided, and with the help of newly available source material, are able to look at the Qing Empire from different perspectives—in its relationships with its territories, internally between ethnic groups, or economically, apart from dealings with the West.

Millward’s sources are diverse, resulting from the increased access to Qing archival materials from which Crossley and other authors benefitted. Palace memorials, gazetteers, financial records, and a substantial historiographical collection from (mostly) the mid to late 20th century make up the majority of sources. As reviewer Linda Benson suggests, in the American Historical Review, Millward’s critique of earlier scholarship seems “somewhat disingenuous, as these pioneers of Chinese history in America had no access to the Qing archives that have clearly stimulated a re-thinking of Chinese relations with Inner Asia.”

A few parts of the book, in particular, caught my eye. The first is Millward’s “mapping” of Gaozong’s vision for the Qing Empire, in comparison to prior historical analyses (197-203). It certainly seems like one of the main points of the book to demonstrate the Qing view of the empire as not “starkly hierarchical,” but in a “parallel” relationship with Muslims, Mongols, Manchus, Tibetans and Han Chinese, with the Qing Imperial House (not identified as “Manchu”) at the center. I was amused and interested to read Millward’s analysis of the cover design for Fairbank’s book, The Chinese World Order, because in his view, the concentric octogons represent an older Sinocentric idea of China and its foreign relations in Asia. The skeptic in me, however, says that this design has about as much to do with Fairbank’s point as the interlocking cubes on the cover of Kuhn’s book have to do with the structure of scientific revolutions. Also interesting was Millward’s discussion of official and “out-of-office” scholars’ thoughts about the retention or possible loss of the Xinjiang region, and their rationales for maintaining it. In addition, Millward’s narrative moments, speculative though they may be, keep the book from becoming too dry, and add color to what could have been a personless economic history.

The Manchus: second installment

2010-09-08T19:06:00.001-07:00

Well, that last post on The Manchus was a whole lotta verbiage for only the first 10 pages! I will try to get a little further with this second post. I wanted first to explore what I think is the intent of the series, which I have yet to verify. The intent that I can divine is to present the peoples of Asia apart from their connections to nations or empires. This might seem obvious, but at least in the case of the Manchus, the population that was so-named was very diverse and had streamed in and out of societies and alliances long before they acquired the name “Manchu,” or led a Chinese empire. So much for my assessment of intent; this may be the first book in the series because series-editor Morris Rossabi happens to be expert in this area. So, now, I’ll talk a bit about the sources used here.

Crossley expressly discusses her source material—and the available sources for all historians—in the introduction. She may, in part, feel this necessity because new sources have become available for a variety of reasons. American access to sources had been variable through the 20th century, and downright difficult at many points. Internally, the Chinese may also have found some difficulty finding or using unusual sources too, particularly during the Cultural Revolution. Some suggest, too, that sources which present divergent or non-nationalist viewpoints have at various times been suppressed or destroyed. I am not sure, at this point, how much that applies to the study of the Qing empire or the Manchu ethnicities, but it seems to have affected it.

The other source-related discussion is around new findings, or perhaps sources which have been used in non-traditional or innovative ways. Korean sources are essential to Crossley’s work, particularly the narrative of a diplomatic visit to “Manchu” khan Nurgaci. The narratives of travelers, students, and merchants add another dimension to official state records, upon which many histories have probably been formulated. Manchu sources of varying kinds have also enjoyed a resurgence, in part because of recent interest in the Manchu language. Like the Korean sources, there are non-traditional sources, like poetry, drum-songs, ballads, eulogies and other writings in the social-history tradition. The use of sources like these in a social or cultural context seems like a no-brainer, at this point—but the further into the past we venture, the fewer of these exist . . . not to mention, the meanings of these sources become increasingly contestable!

So, once having dispensed with these necessary considerations, Crossley leaps into the history of the Manchus. This gets a little complicated because the name “Manchu” is a 17th century invention following conquest of Han China by northern peoples (roughly speaking, the Jurchen, with Kitans and others). Crossley, then, must begin much earlier, in order to talk about the ethnic and linguistic background of the peoples who became the Jurchen, who became the Manchus. There are a series of complex allegiances on a large scale, and smaller familial or social groups which have been labeled “clans” to indicate “consciousness of mutual descent (25).” There are a couple points in this discussion that I found particularly interesting.

The first has to do with some of the linguistic origins of Manchu. I won’t discuss here, but I will suggest that the ability of early language to travel long distances and be adopted is a marvelous thing. The second is the historical/anthropological use of “clan.” This struck me as an oddly western and possibly pejorative usage, though Crossley clearly doesn’t intend it as such—the tern “clan” to describe the social groups of the Jurchens has been in use for some time. However, I was surprised to see Crossley retain it when she chose to use “Taiping War” for “Rebellion,” and “Qing Empire” for “Dynasty.”

Finally (for the time being!), I was interested in the “re-education” the Jurchens or Manchus used for their aristocrats who had strayed too far from the hunter/warrior persona. I was very much reminded of modern re-education of elites and professionals. This is not to say there’s a connection—there’s not!—but I was reminded of Umberto Eco’s colorful characters in the novel, Foucault’s Pendulum, who find that everything in the world is rife with connections, if we only make them.

The Manchus: first installment

2010-08-25T08:58:00.001-07:00

I’ll be taking this book in several chunks, because it is assigned to me, and I have the time to read in leisure and contemplation before the beginning of school. So, The Manchus, by Pamela Crossley. This is the first installment of a Blackwell series called The Peoples of Asia. I’m not sure if this series was ever finished—particularly because Blackwell became Wiley recently. Having made a long-term study of introductions and prefaces, I found the introduction of this book slightly puzzling. It suggests at, but doesn’t describe the original vision of the book by the series editor, Morris Rossabi. The implication is that the book differs in some basic way from this original vision, and may somehow be linked to the book’s presentation of the Manchus as distinct from “China,” “the Qing Dynasty” and of course the Mongols. In some ways some of this discussion seems a little superfluous… all introductions these days have an extreme sense of modesty and apologetic quality that seems over the top. Alright already!

But let’s suppose that in 1997, the explicit statement that the Manchus need to be considered apart from their various organizations and empires had to be said. That is, if I’m reading her intent correctly! However, I’m unsure what she means by the “frontier of knowledge of Manchu history and culture is receding so quickly that it is hazardous indeed to pretend to write down anything about it for a general audience.” Does she mean that, populated by an excess of historians, the frontier is increasingly contested, and that the book’s lifespan may be short? This is the best interpretation I can offer, and yet, this is the occupational hazard of the historian in general.

Moving on, I ventured into the first chapter, which is dedicated further to the idea of separating out the ethnic-groups, movements, organizations, nations and empires the Manchus were created by or affiliated with. For someone (myself) who is less than well acquainted with the history of the European and Asian continents before 1800, this can be slightly confusing. We learn a truncated version of Asian history which equates these groups when convenient. On the other hand, we might think of the Manchu history in the same way we consider the peopling of America. It would be silly for an American to fail to distinguish between the Aztec Triple Alliance and the Iroquois, though they were both native populations of the Americas. Similarly, we know now that we can’t equate the nations of native populations as they were in 1500 with the organizations of native populations in the 19th century. Since we are Americans, we’re very much aware of the nuances of our own history, while Crossley finds that she has to explain the differences here.

After she has given us the basic ethnic derivation of the Manchus, she jumps into the current, or 20th century view of the Manchus, which is very much tied up with the Qing Dynasty or empire. She connects the identification of the Qing as a Manchu empire with the subsequent Chinese nationalism, and then socialism in the 20th century. Meaning that 20th century Chinese were eager to identify the 19th century failures of China with a non-Han ethnic group, and thereby explain those failures (maybe conveniently forgetting the strength of the empire prior to the 19th century). This is something I haven’t heard before, but which seems legitimate. For my own part, I have always attributed these 19th century difficulties to a gestalt of the time. Likewise, the Republican period and the revolution seem very much tied to what was in the air around the world in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. However, history is often used as a way of galvanizing public opinion, and I’m willing to believe that this was, consciously and unconsciously, perhaps.

The Open Empire: first impressions

2010-08-12T09:18:00.000-07:00

The Open Empire is a textbook that is assigned for the 114 survey course in Chinese history. Since I’m an assistant for the course, I thought I’d get ahead with the readings, starting with a general overview of the history that I hope will be useful grounding for the subsequent primary source readings. Hansen makes some bold claims in the introduction that she’s doing something different with the book. I’m not sure how different some of these broad points are . . . every newish text on China asserts that it, unlike others, is not portraying China as a static, closed entity based entirely on dynastic succession. But I guess it’s worth stating when that view prevails anyway (as does the idea that the reflection of the ocean makes the sky blue)—such misconceptions are difficult to dislodge.

It is interesting that she makes, as a primary focus, the disputed elements of dynastic succession, or the contested archaeological finding s, particularly (for me) in the period between 2000 BCE and maybe 500 CE. This is a period about which I know very little, in any context (save a rough idea of the Middle Eastern world)—I certainly know very little about European settlement and travel at this time. Hansen tantalizingly suggests a European/Caucasian settlement in region of Xinjiang between 2000 and 500 BCE. Not only is this pretty darn cool, but so are the unusual sculptures of Sichuan. These include a mask with stylings that look like Canadian first-nations art (ie. Haida), and a “tall priest” sculpture which looks like no art I’ve ever seen before. While I’m sure there are scholarly treatments of these nuggets, they are not yet overtold in the general history of China, and as a result seem excitingly new.

What Hansen really attempts to do—which may be different from most traditional textbooks—is include unusual sources to give a better glimpse into the lives of women, minorities, travelers, and other folks who don’t make it into the written histories of Sima Qian and his successors. I will be interested to see what elements of the textbook students attend to most, and what they think of the general tone.

The End of Victory Culture: overview

2010-08-02T19:45:00.000-07:00

Tom Engelhardt’s The End of Victory Culture is interesting enough, and provocative enough to merit a few days worth of responses. I’m not particularly interested in reviewing the book (or any book)—reviews are boring, and plentiful enough in any scholarly journal. I did find quite a bit to respond to, however, and hopefully in the process of response I can provide a sense of Engelhardt’s book for the reader(s) that I have.

In brief, the book is an amalgam of personal experience of a Cold War youth, media and culture analysis, and history of the US between World War II and the present. His purpose is to expose the “victory culture” of the US (propagated by media and industry, particularly those that are geared towards children), and its decline from the Vietnam War to the present. Engelhardt makes this book relevant by tying it to America’s more recent efforts abroad—even as recent as our crash-and-burn attempts at installing democracies in the Middle East (or newfangled imperialism, either way . . . and incidentally, for my right-leaning readers, if you grow frustrated with what seems like a lopsidedly liberal reading list, maybe I will address this in a later post!). At any rate, Engelhardt is not only critical of American military and diplomatic approaches, but also sees the US as the next logical casualty of the end of the Cold War. If East Germany and the USSR went out with a bang, the US simply endured a more gradual slide from superpowerdom.

Anyway, I was able to flip to any page of this book and pick up reading . . . which more than anything else is a testament to my familiarity with this time, and this particular cultural history. It helps to be fluent in the films, literature, comics and toys Engelhardt talks about. In fact, there’s much to compare about our mutual experiences, despite a difference in age. One of the minor problems with the book is its tendency to jump around from cultural reference to reference, possibly leaving the reader with the sensation that he has lost the thread. I often lost the thread, and as a result wondered if I was missing the point.

I don’t think so, though. Ultimately, Engelhardt is doing this: complicating the picture and reading things against the grain. How modern historians (well, he’s an essayist, not an historian, but whatever) love to complicate things! I think I saw a humorous piece on that in The Chronicle of Higher Education. As frustrating as it can be to read work after contemporary work which complicates but does not answer, it reflects a reality about the world which is absent from the definitive histories of the past. This is particularly important when we are basically still living in this world. The people who experienced these cultural moments are still alive; the wisps of all this cultural miasma are everywhere, even now.

As for reading things against the grain (or even with it), I think Engelhardt does a creditable job—but misses some interesting phenomena that I wish I could mention to him, and get a sense of his reaction. I’ll discuss some of these things in a later post. I do appreciate his inclusion of himself in the narrative, in much the same way that Susan Douglas does in Where the Girls Are. The particulars of his and my experience of the Cold war are something that I’d also like to write about. Finally, this book prompts me to write about the uses of film and television as sources in academic work—the good, the bad, and the really memorable.

Small picture: newsboys

2010-07-30T19:29:00.000-07:00

I'm here to post a little drawing from earlier today, but I also have a favor to ask. If you're reading this, can you comment that you're doing so? I'm curious to know if I have any readers besides Kate. You can comment anonymously; I just would like to know. Okay, on with the newsboys:

Bookshelves

2010-07-29T19:01:00.000-07:00

I took these images of my bookshelves, meaning to post them--and I'm finally getting to it now. Why? I don't know, I felt like sharing what was in my collection. They appear in descending order of importance, and I'll explain why. Click on the photos if you can't read the titles--the images are large enough.

First shelf: This one is the closest, and reachable from the couch. I was only able to take a picture of the top half as a result. The top shelf is mostly an assortment of Greene, Maupin and noir masters Chandler and Macdonald. The second shelf is the first part of my anthropological/museum/historic preservation collection. Below this, not pictured, are the large architecture books and the collected "Love and Rockets." And of course, there is the deer skull, which I found and cleaned myself.

Second shelf: This shelf is of equal importance to the previous one, and is also reachable from the couch. It has my historic books, some really great literature (Beattie, Barker and Waugh), my Rivers collection, and my China collection with Guy's book signed to me. Boy, is that geeky! There are more China books and some L&M readings not pictured below.

Third shelf: Some of these books I like, and some of them I could do without. Classmate Dan thought having Foucault next to Neil Gaiman was funny. Percival Everett is on this shelf, and he rocks. On top, you can see a large piece of obsidian which I pilfered from Mono Lake on the border of California and Nevada, and a couple of other desert rocks. There are also two old Mickey Spillane paperbacks.

Fourth shelf: Some of these are pristine history books which I didn't like the first time around, and might never read again... but you never know! Of course, there are a few old favorites. And then there's the coyote skull up top, obtained in New Mexico, but found and cleaned by someone else. Oh, and there's an old hand plane and spokeshave too. I put those there to redeem a lackluster shelf.

Arc of Justice

2010-07-15T13:57:00.001-07:00

How shall I describe this book? After cleansing my palate with a 50s Ross Macdonald noir (The Ivory Grin), I decided to jump right in to this book which has made it onto several faculty core lists, despite the subject matter being out of line with my own field interests. With Arc of Justice, Kevin Boyle has given us a compelling and sometimes manipulating narrative history. As soon as I began, I could see why this book won the National Book Award (you know, the other NBA. Although, as an aside, I wonder a little at some of the past winners of the National Book Award, don’t you?).

Anyway, the book is incredibly readable. I sat down this morning, and finished it this afternoon. It is this kind of writing that attracts annoying comments like, “so facile,” when clearly a lot of painstaking work has been done. But I suppose that’s the ultimate compliment: “you make it look easy.” And it’s a lot easier to make it look easy when you write a narrative history. While reading narrative history is often fast, it holds certain irritations for me. One of them is the tendency of the author to draw my conclusions for me. Of course, authors always do this—but non-narrative histories are so littered with questions and complications that it’s sometimes possible to ignore the path the author is trying to lead you down.

Not with Arc of Justice. Boyle gives us a complicated portrait of the people involved—make no mistake—but the meaning is unquestionable. Boyle sets the stage of a Detroit almost on fire with racial and ethnic and economic tensions in 1925. A place where a mob of 500 people could descend on a Black resident’s house and wrest the title of the house from him without facing any legal repercussions. In this environment, Dr. Ossian Sweet bought a bungalow and proceeded to defend it—and the book tells us that story, and the story of his trial ahead. In and amongst that story are other, smaller stories: Sweet’s family background, Detroit’s ethnic and political atmosphere, the NAACP’s work, and a bit of Clarence Darrow’s background, among others.

When you read this story (as it is written) you want to say to Sweet: “Hell, why are you going to Detroit? Go anywhere in the country but Detroit—what are you, crazy?” But if not Sweet, then someone else—and possibly not someone who would have garnered the legal defense of Clarence Darrow. What I took away most of all from this book was not the legal, the political, or the organizational work around the problems of race, economy and housing . . . but the simple observation that hundreds of people in a neighborhood would allow themselves to be complicit in a crime of racial violence. I think this is a theme that is repeated often, and yet it needs more repetition: the ability of “ordinary,” “average,” even “innocent” people to become part of a large, violent injustice—and then to proceed to lie about it; to feel justified in it and not ashamed.

Also of interest in the narrative is the colorful depiction of the legal system, especially as used by Darrow. If I were a defense attorney, who better my role model than Darrow? He was not always a winner of cases, it’s true. But tactically, he was amazing. (In this book, Darrow and Murphy are heroes—nothing here to sully them) Most of his work is completed before the case even starts. The judge (Murphy) was a lucky stroke—but not the jury selection process. And it was clearly not for Darrow to proceed by the book. While law is no doubt different, today, I’m certain that his jury selection and cross-examination processes are oft-studied and imitated.

But, back to the subject. The narrative is defined by its beginning and end (says William Cronon in “A Place for Stories”) and the beginning sets the stage with the hot, tense fear of being trapped in a bungalow with an angry mob outside, and ends 35 years later when Ossian Smith shoots himself in the head, on the eve of the civil rights movement. Here is the one silent place where the reader is allowed to let the vast, troubling expanses just sit . . . and to wait for his own questions to form.

The Spitting Image

2010-07-14T19:07:00.000-07:00

A brief foray away from China, for a moment, to talk about The Spitting Image, a book by Jerry Lembcke about myth-creation around the returning Vietnam veteran. This is a slim book and a quick read—and while I’m not in love with the writing, I think Lembcke has a point which has eluded a lot of Americans. For this reason alone, it’s worth reading and assigning to students (especially high schoolers and undergraduates).

The main premise behind the title is that the idea of the spat-upon Vietnam veteran is a myth, of sorts. The myth has many origins, and several intents. But Lembcke’s most important point is that the portrayal of ill-treated veterans took the emphasis away from the US losses in Vietnam. Furthermore, it placed the guilt for the loss squarely upon the American public, and away from government or military decisionmaking. Lembcke has the right credentials to write this book, which might be considered incendiary from a civilian. Lembcke is a Vietnam veteran, however.

The myth of the spat-upon veteran comes from a couple arenas. First and foremost, it seems to be a political invention, meant to bring people in line with policies they don’t agree with—by suggesting that the people fighting the war have been demoralized by protest. It also may have arisen from misunderstandings—such as the egging (by pro-war demonstrators) of veterans participating in anti-war marches. Lembcke finds no evidence of spitting incidents, save in second-hand reports, films, and dubious claims.

He suggests that this doesn’t mean it never happened, only that it’s been inflated to encompass the entire experience of homecoming for the Vietnam vet, just as homecoming for the WWII vet is pictured, erroneously uniformly, as the tickertape parade with the kissing, etc!

Lembcke spends a chapter talking about veteran homecoming as portrayed in film (from the early years of the war through the 1990s). In most of these examples, the veteran is portrayed as: hated or downtrodden, incapacitated, or mentally unstable. He includes a discussion of PTSD, as it emerges in the DSM, to accompany this analysis. While he’s very, very right about portrayal in film, I wish he had looked at a couple of television programs as well. Specifically, “Barney Miller,” and “Hill Street Blues.” As you may recall, Wojciehowicz and Lt. Calletano are both well-adjusted Vietnam vets on these two shows. Possibly there are more examples like this.

What colors the conclusions of the book is Lembcke’s association with Vietnam Veterans Against the War. While it’s true that many veterans were at least skeptical of our intentions, and at most outright protestors, veterans still would have felt the class tensions at work in society. While spitting seems to be mostly an invention, surely there were divisions even between protesting veterans and protesting civilians.

The Party and the Arty: Normalizing Nudity

2010-07-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

Alright, a radical shift away from Vietnam/America politics, to a discussion of mid-century to contemporary Chinese culture and art. These chapters from The Party and the Arty will appear out of order. Kraus spends this chapter writing about the uses of, and the controversies over nude art in China in the latter half of the 20th century. Most of the analysis is of the time just after the Cultural Revolution (late ‘70s) and the early 1990s. A crucial point seems to be 1989, the year of the Beijing Massacre—but also a focal year for art exhibitions including the nude figure (usually female).

The main point of the chapter is to suggest that there was a trajectory in the purpose of nude art—from (ostensibly) criticism of the work as obscene, to an only nominally contested and mostly accepted art. This occurs not as a smooth progression, but in fits and starts, with quite a lot of backtracking.

This chapter provides an interesting contrast with some of the same issues occurring in America at the same time. Though I’m sure that whole books have been written about nudity in American art over time, and response to it—I would not be terribly inclined to read them. What might be nice is a slim chapter like this one, with which to compare it.

China’s nude art seems to have reproduced power structures within gender and ethnicity in almost exactly the same way as the west has for hundreds of years. That is to say that even amid communist-inspired gender equality, the model in nude art is female, passive, and maligned . . . and the artist is male. Furthermore, the model is often either an ethnic minority (non-Han Chinese) or a western woman. Here there are elements of exoticism, power relations between the Han and ethnic minorities, and the sense that Han women would be violated somehow by being the subjects of nude art.

The politics of the displays of nude art seem remarkably similar to American controversies. Some of the comparable events I thought of were these . . . there was the famous statement of Justice Potter Stewart about obscenity: “I know it when I see it.” This appears to have been the Chinese model for decades. Local officials, the public, and artists themselves seem to have applied inconsistent standards based on general consensus at the moment—or even personal judgments. Similarly, I’m reminded of the controversy over public funding of “Piss Christ” (you remember that). Some of the natural comparisons that I made between China’s understanding of obscenity versus artistic nudes, and America’s political relationship with art and obscenity segued nicely into the next chapter about censorship.

Vietnam Wars and Nixon

2010-07-06T10:03:00.001-07:00

I don’t really know where to begin talking about the Nixon administration’s war in Vietnam (and Laos and Cambodia). Let me just say simply that it was primarily about deception. If Johnson purposefully ignored what people were telling him, in favor of ‘loyalty,’ Nixon worked even harder to fabricate a story, and surrounded himself with people who were willing participants in deception. This is not news, of course. Interestingly, I think most people in the US associate Nixon with the Watergate burglary, and perhaps with illegal wiretapping . . . but it’s seldom mentioned in popular conversation that Nixon was behind the secret and illegal bombing of Cambodia. The US involvement in Cambodia during the Vietnam War created and exacerbated the problems which led to the nightmarish rise of the Khmer Rouge.

As with Johnson, this book doesn’t really investigate Nixon’s motives (or the motives of the people he surrounded himself with)—that is the stuff of biographies. But I find it difficult to reconcile the multiple pictures of Nixon. With Johnson, I don’t see such a huge personality discrepancy based on his actions—but I find Nixon troublingly complex. Young’s book characterizes Nixon’s outreach to China in the early 70s as a strategic move to ensure that China would put the right kind of pressure on Vietnam. To some extent, this strategy worked—but ultimately didn’t fulfill US goals. On the other hand, having read China-centric works about this first meeting between the US and the PRC, I’m not willing to believe that his visit was only strategic with regard to Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia.

Furthermore, we have an oddly sympathetic picture of Nixon in other areas. Young describes a “hallucinogenic” moment when Nixon couldn’t sleep, amid the demonstrations and killings at Kent State, Jackson State, and the capitol, when he and his valet Manolo Sanchez took a walk in the middle of the night out to the Lincoln Memorial. He talked casually to the demonstrators there (described on pages 249-251) about the broadening effect of travel. Young turns around the common phrase to suggest that this is the “evil of banality.” I’m still not sure what to make of this, and of other personal and political details about Nixon that seem in such contrast to his apparent lack of scruples or compassion in other areas. I suppose that while all heroes have feet of clay, the converse can be argued: all villains have moments of humanity.

Vietnam Wars, 1963-1967

2010-07-04T12:58:00.000-07:00

For those who are tired of hearing about the Vietnam War, I am coming almost to the end of this series of posts—and then I’ll be starting in on a new book, I daresay! Young’s discussion of the years between 1963 and 1967 seems to be more of the same situation that she describes prior to 1963. This includes:

1. Willful US government (State Department, advisors, and CIA) ignorance—particularly about US mistakes
2. Layers of complexity and paranoia added to US strategizing, coming from little or no evidence
3. Disconnect between government and US public understanding of the conflict
4. Insistence upon US interest in negotiation, while actions say otherwise

About each of these, taking us into and through the Johnson presidency: the NLF insurgency in the south was very large, and worked both within and around the US-chosen government. It was related to a greater Vietnamese nationalism, but was not entirely funded or supported by the north—in fact, much of the resistance in the south came entirely from within. The CIA and the State Department apparently ignored all evidence and warning signs about the detrimental nature of the US role in the country. In what seems like a haze of paranoia and unwarranted layers of complexity, the US government strategized itself into escalating the conflict into all-out war.

As events occurred, and the news of the events made their ways back to Washington, layers of lies, misunderstandings, spins, fantasies, and interpretations seem to have been added. Particularly unsavory was the unprovoked US attack in the northern/international waters of the Gulf of Tonkin, which was somehow translated into an act of retaliation against a North Vietnamese attack—at least, that’s how it was sold to Congress.

Young writes, tellingly: “Years later, as the lies were exposed and Congress tried to distance itself from the war it had sanctioned in 1964, many senators claimed that had they known the facts, they would have opposed the resolution.”(120) It sounds distressingly familiar.

What may not be familiar is the type of US presence on the ground. Westmoreland’s strategy of “search and destroy,” as it was employed by actual troops, appears to have been searching and destroying at random. Young provides lots of evidence that the US troops found ways of justifying attack on any population. In effect, the strategy on the ground was no strategy at all. After the destruction had occurred, the US and South Vietnamese troops would return to bases and southern strongholds, rather than staying in the villages. This allowed the NLF to return after the destruction, and recruit, rebuild, and govern among the remains. I am not sure how US strategy works today—it would be interesting to know if the US made any adjustments to this strategy in its modern maneuvers in Afghanistan and Iraq.

Another interesting note is how the US public seemed to see the conflict with much more clarity than US agencies, politicians and advisors. Whether the public in question wanted to end the war, or whether they wanted to win—either way, the public acknowledged that this was a war—not a negotiation; not a diplomatic action, and not particularly a defense of American democracy.

Another feature of this section are the actual words of Lyndon Johnson on multiple occasions. This narrative isn’t particularly kind to Johnson—after all, it’s not about his social liberalism on the domestic front, but about his rather hawkish behavior abroad. The book really highlights just how incredibly sexual Johnson’s public comments were. I had heard some of them before (he’s quite inappropriately quotable), but his comparison of infiltration and bombing of the north to seduction and rape was disturbing.

One of the questions that was raised for me, and remains unanswered, is this: what were the actual intentions of Johnson, or the US advisors? And furthermore, what was there understanding of the conflict 10, 20, 30 years later? This is the stuff of biography, and sometimes autobiography—but even if I were to read these, I think I would remain skeptical. I would like to know if the people involved really believed what they were selling to Congress and the American public, and I would like to know if their opinions changed. If so, when and why? But personal motives and the interior life are extremely difficult to locate. Anyone who is living has something to gain or lose through his story, and there’s really no way of knowing the interior regions of the heart.

Vietnam Wars, 1954-1962

2010-06-29T20:12:00.000-07:00

These two chapters deal with a myriad of failures. First, there is the complete failure to implement any of the agreements made at the Geneva Conference. There is the sham election in the south, which puts the always unpopular and often difficult Diem in charge of South Vietnam. And then there is the willful ignorance and deliberate misunderstanding of the nature of the conflict by American strategists.

Here, in these two chapters, the tone of the book probably begins to irritate some critics. However, to those who’d cry bias, I would say that the story told here corresponds well with the modern history of Vietnam that I learned, in Vietnam. And that’s as it should be. The American story has been told countless times, in multiple ways: the stories of the American forces, the stories of policy and state department decision-making. Here we have a view of all the parts—not just the American story, but the Vietnamese story, which includes Diem’s government, ARVN, the NLF, and all the other groups and unaligned residents of the country.

And Young does not only skewer the Americans for their absurd strategy. But of course, the strategy is absurd. She notes that, even as they try to apply the Korean insurgency situation to Vietnam, they know that they misinterpreted Korea as well—that the insurgency was coming from within the south, and not only from the north. She also makes it very clear that Diem was no improvement over Bao Dai, in terms of the American choice for a puppet ruler (my words, not Young’s). Even as the Americans, with perhaps good and generous intentions, flood the south with building materials, goods and weapons, they are quickly squandered and appropriated by Diem’s corrupt officials.

Furthermore, neither Diem nor the Americans seem to be able to understand that each killing of a “Viet Cong” creates another NLF supporter from a previously unaligned citizen. As impossible as this is for me to believe, this strategy of removal appears to still be the basis of American foreign involvement (in Afghanistan or Iraq, for instance). Different, perhaps, is the ideological strength of the NLF, and their ability to promote change from within—even within Diem’s government, even in Diem’s strategic hamlets. These changes include land reforms and education for both genders—which makes it much easier for me (personally) to feel more positively towards the NLF than say, the Taliban. Nevertheless, Young’s blunt assessment of our mistakes in Vietnam really ought to inform our modern government-building strategies, if not end them altogether.

Ho Chi Minh's residence, 1958-1969 (MEW, 1996)

Vietnam Wars, 1946-1954

2010-06-28T12:38:00.000-07:00

This chapter takes us from the end of the 40s, through to 1954, with a special emphasis on Dienbienphu. Once again, Young’s focus is the obtuseness about, and sometimes the willful ignorance of the west concerning the situation in Vietnam. She also has written several lines, scattered throughout the chapter, which painfully, searingly illustrate this early conflict in ways that few political histories do—and certainly would have been sidestepped by narratives opting for a more “objective” view.

Several problems are intersecting, causing US involvement in the first place. Following the end of WWII, the US is caught up in the restoration of Europe, and in this case France, at any cost—even though that means supporting a colonial regime which the US, at least ideologically, cannot condone. I wondered what was keeping the French presence in Indochina, since it seemed like it would have been all expenditure, with very little economic return. As it turns out, the French were concerned that releasing this one country would lead to a loss of control in their other, more profitable colonies, especially Algeria and Morocco. While this alone would have mattered little to the US, the Americans probably saw a rising expenditure on France, and the possible loss of raw materials traded in the west. These economic reasons were driving US interest and support of French troops, some of which (Young points out) were former Nazi soldiers.

There was also a growing US paranoia of communism. While this book can’t devote much space to this issue, it is a puzzling one. While there is already a history of American fear of communism prior to the 1940s, it still seems strange that the US could fail to see Ho’s continual appeals to the US as anything but an attempt to secure help from a nation he wanted to emulate. The Viet Minh connection to the Soviets, and later to China, was borne out of US blindness and refusal to acknowledge a nationalist, independence movement in Vietnam.

Meanwhile, the US is looking, rather shiftily, at ways around both the French colonial and the Viet Minh rule of Indochina. Here is where we intersect with Pyle, Graham Greene’s dangerous innocent from the state department. While Pyle is a fiction, his idea of a third force is very much a reality to the United States. While it is interesting to sit back and wonder at the decisions of the US state department and military, I find that it’s easy enough to envision being the dangerous innocent in this scenario: Pyle was a product of irrational political and strategic thinking, dressed up as rationality, and enough people in the US were convinced of this—enough to make it a reality.

The chapter ends with the French loss at Dienbienphu, and Young includes some very strong lines from people who were there, about how the heroism of the French in battle was no answer to the (less militarily strong) Vietnamese, who were fighting for an ideal. Furthermore, Young has included General Navarre’s 1953 map, which shows French-controlled and Viet Minh territories, and the situation seems stark, in general. French Hanoi, for instance, is surrounded on all sides by entirely Viet Minh territory (save the Tonkin coastline), and for a moment, can’t you envision yourself as a French citizen, trapped and perpetually at risk?

What this chapter suggests to me, in this initial reading, is that the United States were attempting to think strategically, with increasingly complex goals which were mostly economic in nature. The economic and strategic goals were almost entirely new (based on a new economy) and untested, and required delicate and constant control of everyone involved. It is amazing that the results weren’t even more disastrous than they were. Should the United States have acted based on its foundational principles instead (such as self-government or decolonization), the US might have avoided a long conflict in Southeast Asia, and it would have been unlikely that the Vietnamese would have closely aligned themselves with either the Soviets or the Chinese communist party. But historical speculation is a dangerous thing—it is reminiscent of hubris.

Halong Bay; it was like swimming in bathwater (MEW, 1996)

Vietnam Wars, first installment

2010-06-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

I'll be posting, in the coming weeks, about the readings I'm doing for three different fields: 20th century US, China, and public history. In all three fields, there are some common themes I'd like to address: human experience as addressed through literature, museums, historic sites, and art. And of course, there are some general readings expected for all three fields. I'm posting today about one of the core readings for the US field: Marilyn Young's The Vietnam Wars.

The Vietnam Wars begins prior to 1945, as is appropriate. As with most subjects, no event or circumstance can exist without its historical context. Of course, an author needs to make choices about where to begin and end the narrative. Often these choices determine the message of the book, and in Young’s case, the message is this: while Americans often perceive the Vietnam War (or conflict) as occurring during a discrete period in 1960s and 70s, ending with the withdrawal of American troops in 1974, it is a misunderstanding of the conflict to limit it to these years. Furthermore, American involvement in Vietnam predates the war by (arguably) five decades, and postdates the war until at least the 1990s. Young is also writing at the cusp of the first Gulf War, without knowing the future of our continuing involvement in the Middle East, and so she mentions a possible comparison without full knowledge of just how prescient that comparison might be.

At any rate, it makes sense for Young to mention the politics in Southeast Asia in the first half of the 20th century—particularly Vietnam’s status as a French colony, and Nguyen Ai Quoc’s (Ho Chi Minh’s) appeal to Woodrow Wilson (and America) for self-determination following World War I. The failure of this, and the subsequent French, Vichy French and Japanese suppression of the Vietnamese, bringing us through to World War II, explains or demonstrates several things. First, it demonstrates the ambivalence of American politics and ideals concerning colonies and decolonization. Second, it explains the Vietnamese turn to Soviet-style socialism and the writings of Lenin—but also explains why not all of the Soviet socialist ideas would work in a Vietnamese revolution. Finally, Young’s narrative illustrates the bloody and complicated conflict that was occurring contemporaneously with the more well-known events of World War II, and which are somehow not part of the general American consciousness of world events.

Obligatory photograph of Hanoi, taken by MEW in 1996

Zen and the Art of... part two

2010-06-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Alright, onward to the Chautauquas I mentioned in the last post about Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. And when I’m done here, I had better get to reading and blogging about the history books in my fields. I mean, priorities…

Even though the general tone of the book put me off, I was intrigued by Pirsig’s discussion of Quality. He arrives at this particular Chautauqua while he, Chris, John and Sylvia Sutherland are traveling through Montana. When they stop to visit an artist-friend, DeWeese, Pirsig uncovers more of this mysterious persona which he used to be: Phaedrus. Phaedrus taught at the university years ago, and there’s some rather cryptic discussion of what happened to him then, and why he left the place. Rather than dwell on the mundane reasons for this, Pirsig begins to recall his classes in Quality. Specifically, he remembers trying, and failing, to define Quality in writing, despite the fact that it is the accepted belief that you need a definition in order to teach it—particularly to the students, who clearly expect in Phaedrus an authority figure to imitate.

Phaedrus has a fundamental problem with imitation. Likewise, he sees a certain “squareness” in the attempt to define Quality. And finally, among his students, he notices that the drive to acquire grades, and the drive to imitate are inextricably linked. In order to put an end to this cycle of imitation for grades, he does two things: he asks his students to write about objects or concepts that would be impossible to imitate (such as their own hand), and he eliminates grades, at least until the end of the class. The faculty and the students often react negatively, and the negative response is no doubt due to the fact that all of this is happening before the advent of postmodernism. Even the publication of this book is just on the cusp of it—so these concepts must seem very new indeed.

However, there are pieces of this Quality inquiry which seem still to apply to academia, even in a post-postmodernist age. The first has to do with grades. Really, very little has changed about the student response to grading since Pirsig wrote the book. Children who work for grades become adults who work for grades—and they are aware that imitation provides the best possible chance for an A. Innovation can earn anything from an A to an F. A product of both graded and ungraded education, I feel confident in saying that ungraded education was far superior for me, as Phaedrus hypothesized. Because the drive for learning is internal, and innovation goes unpunished, a true student has an opportunity to push the boundaries of education. Of course, as Phaedrus finds, the unmotivated student simply does not know what to do. However, he speculates, perhaps these folks should not be students.

The second piece of the discussion that still resonates has to do with internal divisions in the faculty, and between the faculty and the administration in the university, or The Church of Reason. Faculty may be guarded about new methods, or unwilling to encourage innovation among students—and this I’ve witnessed again and again myself. I’ve written before about the disconnect between the shockingly innovative writing that we read in class, and the very cautious, careful, and “objective” work we are expected to produce. But some of this professional cautiousness also comes from a guardedness against administrations, who see the university not as a Church of Reason, but as a business venture. And that attitude certainly exists, and is probably more prevalent now than it was when Zen was published.

To keep this post from being absurdly long, I will hold back my final comments on the book for a third post.

Zen and the Art of... part one

2010-06-19T19:50:00.000-07:00

Over the years, many have recommended Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. I kept putting it on the back burner, until a friend mentioned in passing a remark made by a U of C professor in the book, “We are not here to learn what you think . . . we are here to learn what Aristotle thinks!” Because he mentioned it, and because it involved thinly disguised professors from the U of C, I decided to give it a shot. It was not quite what I expected. I can’t say that I particularly like the book, but there are some interesting moments—and a number of moments which were provoking enough to warrant a journal entry.

I started the book at nearly the end, having skimmed through it looking for references to the University. So I started with Phaedrus’s experience at the U of C, and followed it to the end, and then decided that I’d better start from the beginning and work towards the middle. However, no matter where you start, Pirsig’s consciousness (written as the narrator) and the experiences of Phaedrus intersect. It doesn’t take long to discover that a large part of the book is grappling with mental illness, most likely schizophrenia, and what happened after electroshock treatment. “Phaedrus,” in other words, is Pirsig before treatment, and a large portion of the book is devoted to Pirsig’s journey to recover this lost person. I almost wish I had known that going into the book, because I had rather a different expectation.

Possibly, the book is interpretable in several ways, and different people choose to take away different elements. Ultimately, this exploration of mental illness is more interesting to me than a series of Chautauquas about technology, quality, classicism and romanticism, rhetoric and dialectic. However, I believe this is for what the book is really known. This set me off right from the start—not the Chautauquas themselves, because I like to think about troublesome topics—but the author’s need to force them on other people, especially his own family, and particularly his son Chris. There’s an honesty to the presentation, though. Pirsig seems to be aware of the problem, but can’t stop himself. This makes the narrator unlikable, to me, and I find I’m frustrated with what I see as self-absorption and spotty parenting.

Pirsig recognizes in Chris the beginnings of mental illness (possibly—I see mostly anxiety in his portrayal of Chris, and none of the mania or delusions that he hints at with Phaedrus). He also sees some of Chris’s posturing, “YMCA egoism,” and other behavior that troubles him. Pirsig’s method for dealing with this is puzzling—but I’m also aware that the relationship between fathers and sons is often a bit of a war. On the other hand, Pirsig seems only to reinforce some of the same values that he claims to dislike.

Generally speaking, the readers and recommenders of Zen have been men. I wondered, while reading, if there is a gender difference in both the interpretation of the book, and also enjoyment of the book—much like there is for The Giving Tree. (Incidentally, if you want to know why many women loathe The Giving Tree, I will explain in the comments) At any rate, it occurred to me that perhaps some fellows might identify with Pirsig, Chris, Phaedrus, or all three of them. While I often identify with men in literature, I can’t identify with these men. And perhaps the people who like this book have less of a problem with a sort of aggressive pedagogic tone.

I’d planned to write a little about the Chautauquas themselves, as there is quite a bit of philosophy in this book, but I think I’ll have to devote a second post to that. I’d also like to discuss in further depth the segment of the book I liked the most: Phaedrus’s experiments with Quality, and the absence of grades. And the Church of Reason. Perhaps this segment resonates with me right now, just as I’m back inside an institution that drives me crazy (academia, of course). Read onward, then, in the next post.

This is how you make me angry

2010-06-14T09:08:00.000-07:00

In one recent email, informing me and a bunch of other folks that we won't be interviewed for a $9/hr job, the writer feels it necessary to include this final paragraph (as if the rejection itself weren't enough):

(and at the risk of being an obnoxious advice giver, I'd like to just make sure that your luck is supported by what I think is the best book ever for job hunting -- _What Color Is Your Parachute_ by Richard
Bolles. It stood me well over my twenty-three years as a software engineer, but never better than when I got laid off from my last software job, before I came to work here.)

Yes, yes, we know that you have employment, and are happy in your employment. But I guarantee you that 100% of the people who applied for your part-time, $9/hr job are just trying to eat, not trying to find their life's career. Frankly, the color of my parachute is professional history, which I happen to be pursuing while also trying to eat. And to be honest, the bank, and the electric company, and the grocery store do not care about my dreams. They care about how much cash is in my account. And if you, dear writer, could have seen my parachute when your email reached me, you would have seen that it was purple with rage, and so it's best that you were nowhere near my parachute. However, a few days have passed, and I'm back to mood-ring blue again.

Also, while I was perusing Craigslist, I came across this interesting post:

Proect Manager (Western Mass/Ct/Vt)

Engineer Architect with significant project management experience - Part time position, may lead to full time. Individual must have at least 20 years of large scale project management experience. Green or LEED projects desired. Health center/Medical/ School experience also preferred.. Please send resume/references/and availability

You will notice that the poster missed the "j" in project, put two periods after preferred, and no period after availability. All this, and there's really very little detail about the kind of work being offered here anyway. What eats at me about these posts is that someone with questionable basic writing skills is posting an ad that requests 20 years of experience in a highly specialized area which requires higher education. There's just something wrong with that.

Bittersweet dream at airport gate 712

2010-05-20T14:08:00.000-07:00

I dreamed I was at the airport, maybe LAX, waiting for my flight to China. There was a long layover. The airport didn't really look like LAX (it didn't really look like any airport I've been to, but it was more European, maybe closest in style to Zurich) but Los Angeles would make sense as a stopover to China. I was either at gate 712, or the flight was scheduled to take off at 7:12 in the evening, or both.

艾恺 was there. I saw him wandering around, waiting for the same flight. We stopped and talked really briefly. I said, "you're back from China?"

He said, "no, I'm going." Liang Shuming was still alive, and 恺 was going to see him for some vaguely diplomatic reason. He told me what Liang had said about his meeting with President Obama, and how it differed in the extreme from Obama's press release about the meeting--and in short, it made Obama look bad. I think the upshot was that Liang was basically accusing Obama of aligning himself with corporations who had interest in China. I was really disappointed.

For some reason I told 恺 that I was going to Italy. Maybe because 恺 is Italian, or it just got all screwy in my head. Anyway, we parted, but when I discovered that we still had hours before the flight, I tried to find him again, to ask if we could just take a stroll and talk. I really needed to talk to someone, and I guess the dream was reminding me that I was lonely, and that I miss 恺 too, for reasons I can't entirely explain. I woke up feeling wistful.

See you at the bat clinic

2010-05-17T15:14:00.000-07:00

Yes, I came home to a bat flying around the house. It scared my socks off, since it flew right at my head as I was coming up the stairs with a load of laundry. I'm quite accustomed to catching mice in a jar and taking them outside, but I've only caught one bat before this one, and it was asleep.

First I locked Harry up downstairs. I know he was chasing it, but I also think he was scared of it--he was acting weird. He's got his rabies jabs, so I guess he's okay. But I was sleeping with it in the house last night, and I don't have my rabies jabs.

So anyway, I got a towel wet and proceeded to go find it. It was large, and brown, and hiding between the bedspread on the guest bed and the wall. I had to pull the spread out slowly, and then quickly cover the thing in the towel. Then I was like, "what now?" It made all kinds of clicks. After I got the courage up, I scooped the towel into the bucket and closed it. Poor thing is probably dead already, if not from suffocation, then from shock. I feel terrible--bats eat bugs, after all!

Then I called animal control--maybe I should get it tested for rabies? I mean, just in case? Guy on phone very unhelpful. Looks like a call will have to be made tomorrow to Montague Health Department. Probably nothing to worry about--but I suppose I'm not quite ready to contract rabies and die.

Emergency-preparedness?

2010-05-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

I was zooming along 47 yesterday when I heard a very bizarre radio spot created by FEMA/The Ad Council, about being prepared for disasters. It had looming, frightening, movie music in the background, and a very serious young woman voicing-over an undefined threat.

What was the threat? There was no clue, except the music led me to believe that it could have been one of these: nuclear apocalypse; sun going into supernova (yes, I know this is scientifically inaccurate); giant meteor headed for earth; large scale terrorist biochemical attack; plants releasing spores that create mass suicides; zombie invasion. Now, the parting words were, quite seriously, "make a kit; have a plan." Now, I know there are zombie-invasion kits on the market, but there is no kit and no plan that will help you in a nuclear apocalypse. Just sayin.'

I suppose FEMA was really suggesting more of a major flood or earthquake scenario--but I still don't see a kit and a plan as helping much. Maybe if they were to eliminate the looming music, and say, "get the hell out of town when the authorities say 'evacuate,'" and then suggest that you stay calm and assist health care professionals in a Superdome-style event, that might make sense. I still think that no kit and plan is going to help you if a building collapses on your family. You have to wait for the rescue people to do their jobs.

I was in the Loma Prieta earthquake in '89, and I'm sorry to say that a kit and a plan would not have helped the people on the Bay Bridge. After Loma Prieta, my school asked for backpacks of non-perishable food and drink, for each of us. But where were the bags stored? Would we have had access to them?

Now, a kit and a plan might make a lot of sense in a house-fire. But they clearly weren't implying house-fire--they said, "major catastrophe." A kit and a plan for egress for all family members, and a neighboring house to meet makes a lot of sense. You know what else would make sense? A kit and a plan for getting lost at the County Fair. And once you find your family, and leave the County Fair, a kit and a plan for systematically finding your car also strikes me as useful.

I'm not diminishing the idea of staying calm and rational in the event of a major emergency (ie. a flood). But let's not assume that 15 minutes of planning now will help you much in a catastrophe. That house you were planning to meet at? Washed away. That cell phone? Batteries dead. Sometimes the best things you can do are to follow directions when they are given, do your best to help the people immediately around you, and hope everyone else is doing the same.

Longa rest

2010-05-12T15:27:00.000-07:00

Music and the voices envelop you
a hurricane, swirling around an eye;
electrons buzzing around a nucleus.
My heart beating hard and fast,
I could see the pulse in my wrist.
I was elevated, I was lifted--
high with no chemicals at all.
I drew everything around you,
like an aura all around the space
in which you were standing,
and the picture is notable
by what it doesn’t contain.
There is a great yawning lacuna
where your portrait should be.

Fallen trees! Fires! Wires!

2010-05-06T10:07:00.000-07:00

Yes, the title says it all. Driving home through Montague, there were sudden gusts and lightning bolts. Past the Bookmill came to a fallen tree and wires on fire. Turned around, drove back past Montague, and came across another BIG tree fallen across the whole road, wires entangled. Turned around, had to clear some big branches from the road, while two big falling trees were leaning precariously against another. Followed another guy on a backroad in Montague to Millers Falls. It was apocalypse freaky. House is okay, whew.

Late April in Vermont

2010-04-30T18:09:00.000-07:00

This was Milton, VT, a few days ago:

Followed by a thunderstorm, apparently. It's been warm here in Turners, though.

The Room in le Dragon Volant

2010-04-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

"'What is my religion?' I asked.
'A beautiful heresy,' answered the oracle instantly.
'A heresy?--and pray, how is it named?'
'Love.'"

From In a Glass Darkly by J. Sheridan LeFanu

Belchertown State School

2010-04-25T05:10:00.000-07:00

Inspired as I was by a discussion about the now closed Belchertown State School for the Feeble-Minded (an institution not known for its humane treatment of people), I decided to take a trip over to Belchertown today to see the campus. I managed to get inside a few buildings (I only poked my head into the asbestos-ridden ones, and got into another one rather sneakily). It was kind of thrilling to be on the wrong side of the law. On the other hand, I was really nervous the whole time I was inside--I guess because I was alone, and I wasn't sure who might be squatting there. Anyway, here are some pictures:

Stairs inside an administrative or educational building

Moody indoor shot

Don't go in--asbestos!

While I was there, I ran into a woman who worked there in the 70s, who was walking with her daughter (the daughter was working on a photo project). She told me a little about her experiences there, and what she remembered/didn't remember. So it seemed to me that at least some people treat it like a ruin, or a memory site. Because the expenditure would be too great to do asbestos remediation on the buildings for adaptive reuse--and probably an equal expenditure would have to be made just to tear the buildings down--the place just sits. And I kind of like it that way. Nothing too horrible can happen there, I think, given that it's right next to the police station. Though obviously they don't patrol the area, because I was able to get into the buildings without being caught. But most of the people there during the daytime were quiet and reverent. I guess I wouldn't like to be there at night, when apparently the skinheads come to write graffiti.

The meaning of life

2010-03-24T18:05:00.000-07:00

One day on the jobsite Doug asked Seth and me,
“what is the meaning of life?”
and I said, “work is the meaning of life,”
and Seth said, “I’m not sure I agree with that.”
I would have added, “love, too, of course,”
but there are just some things you don’t say at work.

Down by the mills

2010-03-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

So, it seemed like a good afternoon to do some exploring: just chilly enough for a jacket and tuque, overcast with a slight mist of rain, quiet on the streets. I decided to walk down to the abandoned mill on the Connecticut river, in Turners Falls. I was alone, and in one sense, that was nice. When you're taking a walk alone through a post-industrial landscape, it gives you a little sense of adventure, allows your mind to wander, and you're free to just take in the crumbling beauty (or the beautiful crumbling, perhaps) of what sometimes seems like a post-apocalyptic town. But on the other hand, it would have been nice to share it with someone, too--to walk through the damp leaves by the river bank, looking for a possible homeless encampment on the other side of the river. But I took some pictures so I can share it with you now. Here is the view while crossing the bridge over the diversion of the Connecticut River, called the Power Canal:

Power Canal (mew)

The water is always high here, just as it always seems to be quite low in the river. I'm still not sure how clean the Connecticut River it, but I assume not very clean. So, perhaps no swimming when summer comes. But right now, it's got that late-winter beauty, hibernating. I walked on and came to a lovely mill in decay. It reminded me a little of the coal town in Oliver's Travels, which he says is in government Category D: do nothing.

Category D (mew)

Here is a close-up of two of the windows on the mill. I seem always to have a picture like this, no matter what the location. I must like the symmetry of two windows in the frame:

Two mill windows (mew)

I walked on, saw from the other side just how much of the interior of the mill had collapsed. Once the roof is compromised, the inside of the building seems to go rather quickly. And what's left is the exterior shell of brick. It's masonry that lasts, just like the ancient castles and abbeys in England, the ones you can go wandering around, communing with the stones. Why not do that here? Take away the fence, and clear the rubble and danger from the center, and then let lush grass grow all around and inside. An old mill as the American ruin. About 50 yards past the ruins, I came across a piece of inscrutable graffiti:

MonkyTurkey (mew)

At last, I came to the river. In fact, this was part of the reason for my expedition. Earlier, I had seen the person who dresses in a suit made entirely of plastic bags stopped on the side of the road coming into town from Greenfield. Her bicycle was parked on the side of the road, and she was partway down the hill towards the river. Perhaps she stops there out of necessity, of course, but I also thought she might have some kind of shelter there as well, and it occurred to me that if there was one, I could see it from the other side of the river. So, I picked my way through the leaves, acorns and coal clinkers strewn about, with the light mist growing a little stronger against my face. After much searching, I could not find any sort of encampment. However, I did spot this strange looking tree. And then I headed home.

Tree by the river (mew)

The moving target

2010-03-09T17:53:00.000-08:00

You were a moving target
and I the arrow, embedded.
You always liked to drive--
when you were angry you'd
drive all night from Sacramento
to Salt Lake City, have breakfast
and drive back home. Of course,
home was wherever you were.
It was where you worked.

One morning I stumbled out of you
while you were downstate working.
I was drunk with new life, and I
was born on the move.
What emerged from necessity
flowered into beauty.
I have always loved the freeway,
the salty desert, the faded motel.
A place that the wind might sweep up
and carry away at any moment.

When I get up in the morning,
on my way to work I think:
"I'm just going to keep driving."
In a few hours I'll be somewhere entirely new,
a place free of the weights of the past.
And in a few days I'll be somewhere old,
a place that brings tears unaccountably.
I'll slip that old tape in the deck
and feel the waves of memory
crash around my head like a breakwater.

Sometimes I drive all night,
looking for something, and then
coming home in the darkness I see
two points of light, inexplicable, unwavering.
Two lanterns holding fast
though you'd expect the inky night
to wash them both away.

A couple of days in Chicago

2010-03-05T15:50:00.000-08:00

The old neighborhood (mew)

Downtown (mew)

Wells St., Spade and Archer (mew)

Just a city poem

2010-02-27T17:18:00.000-08:00

I’m in a strange city. As I emerge from the trainyard, with the tracks stretching ahead and behind me, I’m looking for a landmark, a destination. Nothing is familiar, yet everything is familiar: long blocks of masonry and cornices, long blocks of Lustron and glass block, long blocks of signs and parked cars, long blocks of streetcar rail and cable in the air, disappearing beyond a turn in the boulevard. Nothing seems new, not the buildings, not the dusty road, not the signs or the cars, not even the derelict men lingering and shuffling at the corners. They don’t see me.

I’m running. Fear’s not why I’m running. It’s just that sometimes I feel the need to move fast, to beat it across the pavement, to get somewhere. Only I’m not getting anywhere. I’m on one side of the boulevard, flat and long and dusty. Sepia, almost. Particulate permeating the air. The boulevard has a diagonal turn, an elbow. As I pass it, all I can see is more and more and more city stretching on and on ahead. I run past one striking building, its name immortalized in blue and white tile above the entrance. One landmark in a sea of faceless edifices.

It has no name, this city, and there’s no one here I know. I’m looking for you in the reflections of the shop windows, in the windows of the streetcars as they shudder down the road, in the faces of the walkers as they brush past me on the sidewalk. I stop and stand still for a moment, turning ‘round, breathless, lost. Lost in beautiful decay, its living heart pulsing beneath its deceptive surface. Here I am. I don’t know where I stand. Find some way of telling me.

Interior manifestation

2010-02-22T21:31:00.000-08:00

For what purpose this life,
the body a mysterious object;
this particular consciousness,
a mind both whole and opaque;
this particular moment
so strange and yet so ordinary?
Where is its radiance?

Here is a raw geode, unbroken;
I can hold it in my hand and it
appears as simply a stone might—
rough and cool, a weight in my palm.
But from within I can feel the heat
radiating outward—as I
brush the dust from the crevices
I know inside there lies dormant a
glittering core, a heart of vibrant color.
Understanding this, I close my eyes:
you are whole, but transparent to me.
Tell me—do I dare split it open?

More great gym ideas

2010-02-21T18:21:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I work out at the Y, which is a pretty great place, but I have a few ideas which could improve the experience, and also the attendance. The first is environmental in nature. I thought of all the collective workouts happening all over the country and the world, and thought: why can't they hook up the stationary bikes and rowing machines to the power grid, so that we are all generating energy which can be put to good use, and which is made by burning calories instead of coal? I know I'm not the first to think of this--so c'mon! I bet more people would go to the gym if they thought they'd be helping out the planet too.

The second has to do with the very special Expresso bikes. (This reminds me of the time at the University of Chicago when the newspaper editor joked he was going to the Henry Crown Gymnasium to work out on the Lexis-Nexis machines--which incidentally is a law database) Anyway, the Expresso bikes have various scenic routes to ride, and they also have a video game which features Chinese dragons. This is all very good, but I have some better game ideas.

How about "Cyclo Driver: Streets of Hanoi, Vietnam"? Your goal is to drive your cyclo from the university to the No Noodles shop without getting hit by a crazy motorcyclist! Bonus points at intersections.

Or what about "North Shore X-treme Crazy Mountain Bike Ride"? The more jumps, drops, and skinny tracks through the Pacific Northwest terrain, the better!

Or, finally, "2 AM: Ukrainian Village to Lakeview, Chicago." Nothing like a smooth ride down those city streets when the traffic is quiet and last call has just been made.

Three places, with rain

2010-02-18T14:38:00.000-08:00

Thirsty desert dust, primeval Sierra mountains behind me,
sitting on the Renault outside a cowboy bar when it starts to rain
big heavy tears, as the Nevada plain stretches out in front of me.

Monsoon in the jungle, tall bamboo, sugar cane and bananas
and a little girl holding the biggest damn grasshopper;
It’s the size of a lobster, and somehow I’m not even fazed.

Sitting on top of a slick wet grave, the one that says “Going.”
The one next to it says “Good,” so depending on which way
you look at them, it’s Good Going or Going Good.

Unspoken [excerpt]

2010-02-07T15:16:00.000-08:00

There is no single place: for me there are so many,
like shards of broken glass, shattered across the small planet--
etched into my skin like scars; they form patterns in the
muscle and bone; they are the well-worn synapses.
I think to myself, “hey, that’s in the realm of poetry,
sacred, you know.” You can only give those stories away,
like a song, like a flower left in secret on your doorstep,
like a hand on your shoulder, that moment of warmth.

Hyde Park dream

2010-02-01T08:07:00.000-08:00

This dream started very far away from Hyde Park (Chicago), as I was picking up some intermittent work from Leary & Wilson, framing a building which looked a lot like the Shelburne Winery (at the stage where we were standing walls). I said something funny to Crippy, and then I realized it wasn't Crippy, it was just another guy who looked like him. All the crew that I had known in the past was gone. Ben seemed different too, but I really noticed when he lit a cigarette (in real life, Ben doesn't smoke).

But shortly I found myself in Hyde Park, making my way back to my office from class. The quads were green and lush, and the ivy was bright and growing rampantly all over the stone walls. I decided to shortcut through one of the gothic buildings--a large one--but realizing that it was not one which I was very familiar with. On the inside, I discovered that there wasn't an identical set of wooden doors on the other side of the building, but instead a huge open stone or slate staircase. Above and all around were the typical gothic details you find in those buildings. I decided to go upstairs and have a look around. There was a fellow coming up behind me, maybe in his late 50s. He said, "are you on the way to [mumbled] class?" I said no, that I was just having a look around, but then I got curious. On the uppermost floor, I could see where the class was being held, and I went in. It had already started, but it looked like it was being team-taught by the guy who had followed me up the stairs, and another fellow. I gathered it was a philosophy/science class--the philosophy of science? But rather more specific in nature. I sat down and took out my notebook; I thought it might be fun to listen in on lecture.

The lecture started with a discussion of the Litt-Avis Overconverter (if anything should ever be named this, I insist upon credit!). I realized that the second professor was wearing a blue shirt, and his haircut was distinctly Spock-like. After class, the professor who'd followed me up the stairs stopped to talk with me, and we were going on for a bit when I realized that I had missed the lecture I was supposed to attend (the 111 class that I am the TA for here at UMass) and was already halfway into my office hours. I started in a run for Social Sciences (ah you dreamer, thinking your office is in Social Sciences!) and didn't make it before I woke up.

Systemic circulation

2010-01-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

There's great gaps and silences
while I'm watching the patterns of your veins
as they splay upwards and return
to the center, to your heart.
From across the room I can feel
the beat and the flow
a hint of a smile when
spent cells become reoxygenated;
a little laughter when
I have to win you over ev'ry day anew.

A few words from "Two Gentle People"

2010-01-18T09:54:00.000-08:00

"They did not exchange addresses or telephone numbers, for neither of them dared to suggest it: the hour had come too late in both their lives. He found her a taxi and she drove away towards the great illuminated Arc, and he walked home by the Rue Jouffroy, slowly. What is cowardice in the young is wisdom in the old, but all the same one can be ashamed of wisdom. ...

"...while he sat beside her and remembered the street outside the brasserie and how, by accident he was sure, he had been called "tu."
'What are you thinking?' Patience asked. 'Are you still in the Rue de Douai?'
'I was only thinking that things might have been different,' he said.
It was the biggest protest he had ever allowed himself to make against the condition of life."

--Graham Greene

Old house dream

2010-01-11T09:12:00.001-08:00

I dreamt last night that Pat and I were carpooling to work, south on 89. Pat was his usual self: funny, charming, cavalier about work. We talked a little about Stanley, his dad. He was looking at some drawings and photographs of mine, and I guess I mentioned that I wanted to get a picture of the old house at Cherry Street. So he got off at exit 17 so we could stop by. We drove up the street and I saw it: changed. It was brick (which seemed right, even though in life it was clapboard), but the new owners had taken down the front porch. It looked naked. They had attached a beat up old barn door across the front entrance, and there were a few abandoned junkyard cars on the left side of the building. My heart sank.

I had a key, so we went in. Oddly, it appeared lived in. There was furniture, and it looked in reasonable shape, though the configuration of the house was different. In the basement, there was flooring, but the flooring was interrupted by rock formations that jutted from the floor. When we came back upstairs, I noticed water seeping in at all the joints, and cascading down the center of the double-paned door. It gave me chills, all of a sudden. I looked around back and to the side, where Tina’s house should have been. Instead, there was a huge outcropping of rock. The rocks were gray, peach, and sandstone, mottled. It was much too large to have been put there, but I knew it couldn’t be natural, either. Instead of being flat, out back, there was a steep slope down, after which I noticed nothing. Everything was strange, and silent.

We heard a car pull up, and I was afraid we’d be in trouble for trespassing, so we hurried outside. As it turns out, it wasn’t the owners, but a rental agent who thought that we were looking to rent the place. I was angry and chilled at the same time. I tried to find Pat so we could leave, but for some reason, he went back inside. And then I woke up.

On teaching (part 2)

2009-12-31T13:37:00.000-08:00

My previous post--that was a class, and an instructor to whom I responded positively. There were other, not so happy times, too. In the fall two years prior to the class above, I took my very first college class [a core social science] on a Monday or Tuesday morning, with MP. He was an intimidating figure then--impossibly crisp at all times in his mandarin collar shirt, with his hair slicked back, and round gold-rimmed glasses. A few weeks into the class, I went to see him at office hours (which was required). It was a trek into the ivory tower, as physically represented by the sixth floor of Harper. It really was a funny little tower, with more gothic windows overlooking the interior courtyard.

View of the interior courtyard (mew)

We had to sign up for office hours in 15-minute increments; graduate students could have 30 minutes. Before me, there was a graduate student, talking about Heidegger, I think. I was tongue-tied; I had nothing to say. It may not have been so imposing in reality, but I remember a very large desk, behind which MP was sitting, possibly leaning back with his fingertips touching--you know, the C. Montgomery Burns position--except that instead of “excellent,” he was saying, “this is a puzzling paper.” I’m not sure what I needed just then, but a human connection would have been nice. How I managed to pass the class--by finding something (anything!) to say about Marx, or Freud, or Durkheim--is beyond me.

In some ways my capacities are greater now, but I’m still capable of feeling adrift, left behind. My struggle with Sewell (and Geertz and Sahlins, by extension) is evidence of this. Life experience (including MP’s class, but also the intervening years since then) has made deciphering abstractions easier. I experienced a similar phenomenon mathematically, when I retook the GRE after having been a carpenter for three years. I did better. But my memory of college bears a certain similarity to my memories of early childhood: you know enough to be aware of the newness of everything, but not enough to do anything about it.

A pleasanter recollection of office hours is found in my memory of EL. I suspect he was somewhere between 75 and 80 when we first met. He wore large hearing aids; the kind that fit over the earpiece of your glasses. Also, he was a large man, both tall and robust. He used to wax poetic in class about potatoes and butter (he was Irish, you see, and it was Irish history). He used the Socratic method in class. You had to come prepared, like in The Paper Chase, because he would go ‘round the room, posing questions. It really looked bad when you couldn’t answer.

Nevertheless, he was a popular instructor, and at test-time I could only get a seat on the floor (thank goodness not everyone came to class for lecture). EL also required everyone to visit him at office hours. He remains the only person who has ever asked me:

EL: “So, what does your father do for a living?”
Me: [laughs] "Hopefully nothing!"
EL: “Oh, is he retired?”
Me: "Oh no, he passed away years ago."
EL: "He what?" [adjusts hearing aid]
Me: "He’s dead."
EL: “Oh, well, what did he do for a living?”

I have to give him credit for not saying “I’m sorry;” I hate when people do that. We also bonded over a love of Wilkie Collins, the Victorian sensation novelist and friend of Dickens. Even during his Socratic moments, EL was able to put you at ease. Some people do this quite naturally, others can’t . . . and in some cases, it depends upon the individual chemistry between student and professor.

On teaching (part 1)

2009-12-31T06:30:00.000-08:00

I’ve been reading, among other things, UMass’s Handbook for New Instructors, in preparation for spring semester. In thinking about teaching, I am reminded of how I survived the Great Purge of Modern Chinese History. Picture it: Social Sciences 108(?), a small room on the first floor of a gothic building on 59th Street, with arched, multi-paned windows overlooking the Midway through wintering ivy. The first day of class, and I suspect there were 25 or 30 of us packed in there. 艾恺 comes striding in, in his customary fashion (I knew him already from his Civ course). I suppose he assessed the room and decided that the class was too large. He then began to lecture, and through his sharp content-driven questioning, he proceeded to frighten 15 students into never again returning to class.

I did not deserve to be spared. Perhaps he remembered me from the previous fall. Of course, even had he humiliated me, I would still have returned to class on Wednesday, and so maybe he thought any effort expended there would be in vain. Or, possibly he liked me. As I said, I didn’t deserve the confidence. He asked me two things (I’m sure I looked like I was in severe pain, since I was waiting for the other shoe to drop through the whole class):
1) “Miriam, you know what feng shui is?" (geomancy) and
2) “You’ve seen The Last Emperor?" (I hadn’t. This requires some explanation. He must have remembered me since a conversation in the previous year had uncovered a mutual love of movies, and had touched upon both The Cardinal and Oliver Reed’s enforced weight loss.)

Tenacity has its rewards, and we remain friends. Often, when I’m teaching a large group, I like to pretend that I am 恺. This includes his way of striding around, his mannerisms in talking, his actorly presence. Of course, I would never do what I’ve described above—I haven’t the nerve, or the heart. In my experience of him as a warm, personable, human individual, this incident has always puzzled me a little. Whatever its meaning, it really brings me back to a moment in which I can really, viscerally, remember what college is like—internally. And what it is like is . . . terrifying.

Social Sciences classroom (mew)

Midnight Mass

2009-12-30T10:59:00.000-08:00

So I attended midnight Mass on Christmas Eve at Our Lady of Czestochowa (in Turners Falls) without chickening out. It was pretty, and smelled nice, though they might have given a page number now and again so I could see where we were in the liturgy. I was sitting in the back with all the other folks who don't take communion. There were quite a few people there, though, and most of them did go up for communion... and not all of them were in the senior set. The homily was of an interesting nature. He started out with a very gentle critique of the Bishop's method for bringing people back in to the fold, and then began to talk about the reasons which one might want to either return to Catholicism, (or perhaps convert?). As a way of beginning, he talked about the big bang--undoubtedly an unusual topic for a Christmas sermon. I guess the point was that there is an unknown at the time of the big bang--the "nothing" from which something is created. It is like Catholics (and Jews) to accept science and incorporate it into religious meaning, so for this I am appreciative, and it is one of the many similarities I find between the two religions.

He also spoke (though less eloquently than Gerry, the Vicar of Dibley!) about the enduring power of the story of Jesus, of Christhood, and the spread of the gospel over the last 2000ish years. It's been said better, but anyway. It was a nice, inclusive service, and there was some Polish in there, naturally, but the congregation is far from homogenous. There are African-American, Hispanic and other European-American parishioners there. I managed to sing along when I could, especially for Kyrie, which I like.

Swiss Guard at the Vatican, 2007 (mew)

Sanctus - Missa Luba

2009-12-29T18:16:00.000-08:00

Also have a listen to:
Kyrie
Gloria
Agnus Dei

Sewell and Turners Falls

2009-12-16T13:42:00.000-08:00

The paper about Sewell's Logics of History and its implications is done. I can now die with nothing on my conscience.

Winter gloaming
white houses
streets slick with ice
and lights strung up.
Plastic Santa Claus
lit from inside
like I never saw anything so beautiful

Migratons

2009-12-14T08:37:00.000-08:00

You and I, we did the same thing
we discovered the East,
leaving the hot sun and the shimmering oil
on Highway 99 through the Central Valley;
leaving Locke or Groveland or Oakdale,
passing Murder Burger;
leaving the fruit and vegetables that
flourish in the dust.

We crossed the mountains into
alkali desert.
You can't water your cows there
it's a primeval land of rocks and salt
and a lone coyote pants by the side of the road.
We stopped at a cowboy bar,
where the jukebox was playing,
when suddenly it rained huge heavy tears.
We drove fast on 80, maybe
racing into Salt Lake City,
a grid at the foot of the Wasatch.

And then we drove on to Chicago,
following the I & M
lost in Bridgeport with the ghost scent
of the stockyards creeping around the corners.
You and I, we spent a few years there;
I don't know how you were affected,
but I still bear a weight from that place
around my shoulders.

And then we came to the East,
with its carnivorous greenery;
the forests which rise
to cover all human detritus.
It has been my home, and yours.
I long for the desert (do you?),
"500 Metres" the music of the sand and stone.
We discovered the East, both of us--
but how we have been separated by time.

Portelli, Stanton, and musing

2009-12-03T14:48:00.000-08:00

Well, things are moving slowly. I'll be in the new old house by December 9, I think. I ran out of heating oil yesterday night, which made me pretty unhappy all night and half of today, as I tried to rectify that. And then back to work. There was one pleasant surprise this week--some positive comments back on a piece of writing. I almost had a heart attack and died.

We discussed Portelli's The Order Has Been Carried Out, and somewhat surprisingly, people reacted in some of the most cold, clinical ways to it. I could hardly imagine why! It was as if Umberto Eco and Elie Wiesel had somehow combined to conduct oral histories in Rome. How poetically David Blight and Ed Linenthal responded to it, and how unpoetically, well... Anyway, the story is this, briefly: a Nazi massacre of 335 Romans occurred less than 24 hours after an Italian Partisan attack on the Nazis (killing 35), but years and decades later, Italians remember the Nazis requesting the surrender of the partisans to avoid the retaliation. In the end, many people blame the partisans, not the Nazis, for the massacre. It is an fascinating ambivalence on the part of Italians about their own involvement, and a sad commentary on politics, and an intriguing study of memory--of course. But why on earth did no one mention the memorial structure of the book? (You'll have to look at the book to see it--I don't really want to describe it). How could you not see that aspect of the book as somehow central? Like it or hate it, it was probably what I would have written about, if I'd had to write about the book myself.

I was also drawn in to The Lowell Experiment, though a lot of people seemed to have a lot of problems with it. As for me, I thought it elaborated quite well on Handler and Gable's The New History in an Old Museum and attempted to address some of the potential problems with that particular study. And people love Handler and Gable. What gives? Stanton dives right into the difficult questions: what of the homogeneity of museum visitors, public historians, interpreters, et al? Do historic sites fail to bridge gaps between the present and the past, or fail to admit to cyclical economic behavior rather than a linear progression? What of the attempts at including diversity, or social justice in the historical narrative? And most fascinating of all, that historians and anthropologists and presumably other professionals have difficulties with insight into their own colleagues--and so, what result does that have on the evidence they collect? At every turn, there was something really exciting to think about--and the best part is, there are no answers.

I am often accused of "musing" in my writing (this criticism is accompanied by "lose the first person")... and as a matter of fact, I do often muse. Well, I think, what about all these authors we read, whose writing is littered with the first person, and who are musing in the extreme (!). I understand that you must pay your dues (apparently over and over and over again) but when you think about the mechanics of learning, you see that people learn to write by reading. And what they're reading influences what they write. (Which is why I continue to hope that someday I will pop out a Graham Greene novel, after so many years of wonderful immersion. I would settle for a short story.)

What else? I also had dream that involved me getting a paper back from DG, and as I flipped through it, I realized that I hadn't looked at the pages after they'd printed, and so did not realize that some of the paper had printed in gibberish (zapf wingdings?). And, in what might actually be in the style of DG's sense of humor, he had written some comments in French. I don't, of course, speak French. So naturally I found the joke very amusing, but I was also mortified. I think I would rather dream about the Mormons and the Mennonites fighting charcoal creatures at a sanatorium.

Dream fragments

2009-11-21T07:58:00.000-08:00

Some part of my dreams last night went like this: I was walking into a grocery store for some mundane item (perhaps a chocolate bar?) when I saw a little bundle of folded cash on the floor near the doors. I picked it up and looked all around, and then looked at it. There was about $80.00 there. I fought a brief internal struggle and then went to the service desk to turn it in. The guy there was busy with a phone call, and as I waited, I looked at the cash again. This time I saw that the bills were in fact elaborate fakes. So I gave up and went away.

The next place I happened to be was in an institutional-style building (maybe a school or dormitory) which had white or whitewashed cement walls. I think there might have been some kind of art installation there. As I was walking through, I spoke briefly with some people there who I knew in the dream, but don't know in life. And then I wandered outside. A whole series of buildings, some institutional and some cabin-like dotted a picturesque, hilly, green area. There were two groups of people, who seemed to be at odds with one another (and they were dressed rather strangely, at that). I believe I identified them as Mennonites and Mormons. Obviously Donald Worster's Dust Bowl and Rivers of Empire were infiltrating my subconscious, even though I'd been reading Raymond Chandler before bed. Anyway, there was some kind of forbidden love story between two of the young people, not to mention hideous monsters made of iron and charcoal roaming the countryside. The girl in the forbidden romance had just killed one of them with a broadsword when I woke up. Uh huh, yup.

Three quotes for tonight

2009-11-10T18:07:00.000-08:00

Harry Stoner: Everybody misses.
Margo: Not professionals.
Harry Stoner: Oh yeah, professionals too. Quarterbacks get knocked down, nurses get knocked up, somebody invented the Edsel. Everybody misses.
Save The Tiger, 1973

"God was silent.
Cohn tried to squeeze out a small assurance."
Bernard Malamud, God's Grace

And one from Racine:
"Love is not a fire to be shut up in a soul. Everything betrays us: voice, silence, eyes; half-covered fires burn all the brighter."

Assorted, uncategorized, adrift

2009-10-27T19:51:00.000-07:00

"I fell in with some drifters
Cast upon a beachtown
Winn Dixie cold cuts and highway hand me downs
And I wound up fixing dinner
For them and Boston Jim
I well up with affection
Thinking back down the roads to then." (Joni Mitchell)

Getting ready for another long drive tomorrow, preceded by an outflow of cash that is guaranteed to feel like desanguination. House two weeks away. Odd class responses to recent readings. Manifest Destinies turned out to be a little on the controversial side, which I found surprising. It was primarily a legal history, which led to some negative comments about sources. My contention, I think, is that court cases, legal documents, policy reports--they are all legitimate primary sources. But I think people wanted to see sources from around these things--so as to gauge the public opinion behind the decisions. The sources may or may not exist--but I see the point of asking for them. Also raised the question of whether using historic (primary) sources that reference another document (which may or may not be available, like a 19th century report that mentions a letter received) is appropriate, and how often can it be done? I had hoped for HR and JH to weigh in, but no such luck. HR did have some issues with factual weakness in the book, as well, but I'm not sure how we're supposed to be able to assess that without more extensive background.

We talked briefly about the school of "whiteness studies," (mentioned in an earlier post about Roediger) and to some degree I have the same response to that as I do to gender studies. There's no question that [socially constructed] gender, and [the creation of] race have a tremendous amount of influence on the world. But I have an issue with framing an entire history that way. In the case of race, I find the argument overly simplistic. As with Roediger, I can't find a history that chronicles Southern and Eastern European immigrant transformation to whiteness either provocative or exciting. A legal history of Mexican American conflict in NM in the 19th century is interesting without tying itself to "whiteness studies." And I find I can't quite articulate my problems with using gender as a category of analysis. Joan Scott goes to great lengths to provide reasons and templates for doing this using literary deconstruction, and it drives me crazy. Maybe my problem isn't with "gender" (except that it is, sort of) but is a problem with "category of analysis." I feel like my thoughts here are too many and too confused to be contained in this one paragraph, so moving on...

Odd responses to Rivers of Empire too. I was fascinated by the connection to Wittfogel, particularly since Worster readily admits to Wittfogel's failings. And Worster's case studies about the utopian communities in Colorado (ie. Greeley, which is Centennial, by the way), and about the Mormon land and water use in Utah were fascinating examples of hydraulic societies. But I think I was in the minority here. I do admit that Worster's description of the Central Valley was spot on, but when he calls it unpicturesque, disjointed, corporate--I have to admit my jaw dropped. From the old woman selling okra by the side of the road all the way to the pesticide billboard and the migrant workers, I saw... beauty. I saw people living outside a corporate, capitalist order against all odds. For me, it was a perfect picture of how humans live so messily in and outside an imposed structure. And through Worster's description, all of it shines in the golden sun on the golden hills and in the shimmering desert fields--but that is me the poet, the romantic.

And I didn't have enough to say today, about Crimes Against Nature. Feel like crap as a result. Wish we'd talked more about policy here. When we talk about nature as secular religion, I feel like it is a kind of dead end. Yes, clearly the nation (the western world, perhaps) sees something holy in nature, particularly in grand natural formations, regardless of whether they identify as religious individuals. We can easily take nature as a national religion in a country where we at least give lip service to religious freedom: Yosemite speaks equally to Jews, Buddhists, Christians, Wiccans, et al. I assume. I have a hard time finding something to grab on to here. The connection between historical and current policy is sort of interesting to me, though, and in particular, I was curious to find out how likely it might be that this particular work could be used as a defense for deregulation on federally-owned lands. It was a criticism of the book itself, and while I realize the policy changes are realities we face right now, I want to know how much of a responsibility an individual author needs to feel about his contribution to the potential problem.

Two Jobsites

2009-10-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

Two interesting, but oppositional things going on down in the Amherst area this week:

I was looking up at the roof work being done on the Student Center on the UMass campus, and I saw a sight which is beautiful to OSHA eyes. On the right side, the leading edge of the building was entirely enclosed by safety rails, which were both properly secured and neatly nailed together. On the left side, there was a guy doing leading-edge work. He was wearing a hardhat, pants, a shirt, boots, and a safety harness. The harness was attached with a lanyard to a rope, and there was no slack. All the guys on and around the building were wearing hardhats, and guys in basket-lifts were properly tied-off. I thought, well, I guess that makes sense since this is such a high-profile job.

The next day, I was in Montague Turners Falls. On Montague City Road, in yet another high profile location (a new commercial building being erected next to the grocery store) I saw the exact opposite. These guys were sheathing the hipped roof on this new building, and ... NO ONE was wearing a hard hat. Everyone was in sneakers. One guy was wearing shorts and two had no shirt (it was about 48 F). There was no toeboard at the bottom of the roof to keep things from sliding down (on about a 4/12 pitch, which isn't really steep, but things still slide off!). Worst of all, no one was tied off to anything. There were no safety harnesses, ropes, lanyards, or anything resembling fall protection. I have a hard time believing that the OSHA requirements for safety in commercial settings apply in Amherst but not Turners Falls. I think if I'd gone over with a camera in hand, everyone would have been off that roof in seconds--which would have been funny, come to think of it!

Love to eat dem mousies

2009-10-18T14:10:00.000-07:00

At my mom's house, which is located among some conserved beaver ponds, Abby and Zoey Katz were wandering around, stalking various critters. Abby caught a baby shrew, which expired, and Zoey killed an unidentified rodent of considerable cuteness. Neither of them was hungry (of course), and so we had to throw them into the woods. Hopefully some hungry critter will find them and eat them up.

We also saw some evidence of deer, and there are a couple kinds of ducks floating around the ponds. I haven't seen the turkeys or the grouse around these parts yet, but I have seen both along the freeway, presumably trying to get killed.

Sewell and theory

2009-10-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

William Sewell’s article on the shift from social to cultural history would have been a much more useful text to include alongside Thompson, et al., last week, because (while it is a commentary on the domination of cultural history in the field in recent years) it also provides a much clearer picture of what social history is, and isn’t. Part of this clarity comes from Sewell’s placement of social history and cultural history in a sort of opposition—and also comes from Sewell’s distinctions between history/historians and the various fields and practitioners of social science.

Causing me further consternation is the question (in my mind) about where history is going. My understanding of history has been of an interdisciplinary, multi-theory (or theory-less), interpretive field; certainly a field without objective truth, regardless of the level of rigor applied to historical inquiries. However, I suddenly find mine to be a minority position—and I’m surprised. It’s not that the people around me (classmates and some professionals) would take such a hard line stance about objectivity, but what they’re saying, and what they’re writing, is in favor of a far more positivist viewpoint. They are skeptical about interpretation, find repellent the use of memory as historical document, and call incessantly for admission upon admission of bias, or uncertainty.

Added to this is Sewell’s implication that historians borrow theory from the social sciences, and twist, bend or amalgamate when the theory doesn’t quite fit… and that historians ought to be talking about, and developing theory from within. Sewell also discussed his wariness about the shift to cultural history and the large abandonment of social history, and what problems this causes. If social history borrows the language and methods of the sciences and the social sciences (quantitative data, for example, or creating theory based on events or social trajectories), then cultural history focuses too much on the individual circumstance to the exclusion of generalizable trends.

I never thought that Marshall Sahlins could be placed in opposition to, say, Natalie Zemon Davis, but apparently I’ve been missing great rifts between fields. Possibly I have not been careful enough about discovering what individual historians are doing when they write. I should know, I suppose, whether GA's writing is more oriented towards the social sciences or the humanities, at the very least (I suspect the latter, but I’m inclined to think it weaves back and forth over the boundary I used to ignore).

Some of this, I think, is due to the particular structure of the Core at the U of C, where I believe the emphasis was on the crossover of sociological thought, historical anthropology, intellectual history, literature, and the evolution of scientific thought. I realize this seems at once obvious and overreaching. Yes, the fields are connected—and no, they’re not. The social sciences do attempt to find social theory—something approaching a scientific theory that may be applied to many circumstances and with roughly the same results. Yet the historian’s approach is more complex and messy (despite, at the U of C, being a segment of the Social Sciences Division).

And then in the intervening (almost) ten years, I’ve had the chance to see just that many more ambiguities. Is the positivist thinking I’m seeing here, or the new-new social/cultural history Sewell calls for—are these the histories of the future? Probably to my disadvantage I am unwilling to discount any method, theory, or non-theory as the “wrong” way to do history. I’m sure I’m supposed to come down on a side—and if I do, will I then be hopelessly out-of-date?

Social history

2009-10-09T09:28:00.000-07:00

The conversation we had at breaktime in Public History suggests to me that the discussion we had in Intro/History, regarding social history, was somehow unsatisfying, inconclusive. It was. There's no inherent problem in not resolving the argument, but when everyone leaves confused and adrift, maybe it wasn't the most productive discussion.

The question which we discussed most was: is social history a European construct, and something that does not exist for Americanists--and if it is a European mode of study, does it still exist, in what forms, and how useful is it? I can only give you my particular take on the discussion, and given the comments on my last paper, I am undoubtedly completely misguided. So, like LeVar Burton, I will say, "but don't take my word for it..."

HR had put the question out about Americanists, and my feeling was this: if you are starting with data "from below," (ie. bread riots or labor strikes, or working class insults, or whatever) and your goal is to project the data into a larger and longer social, political or economic trend which says something broad, then you are doing social history, whether or not you choose to call it that. Americanists call themselves political, labor, economic, consumer, environmental, whatever historians but often shun the social history label.

Problem being, there are Americanists calling themselves social historians, and the argument HR makes is that they're doing cultural history instead (let's not get into that can of worms!). The Europeanists (E.P. Thompson, Eric Hobsbawm, a bunch of German historians whose names I can't recall) appear to be working from a Marxian framework regarding capitalism (and possibly even Marxist, if you're talking about Thompson), but unlike some in the class, I did not think that a labor/proletariat oriented Marxian framework was necessary for doing social history. However, I am leaning towards the idea that some framework (of your choosing) is necessary for creating true social history, and the presence of a framework indicates to me that you (the historian) have an agenda that is at least mildly political.

This is not to say that an historian can be without agenda or bias; far from it. I am not (Not Not Not) a positivist... As DG put it to me earlier, "I thought [Peter] Novick had put all that to rest [in That Noble Dream]" and clearly, well, he hasn't. (I remember now, it was Armistead Maupin who wrote (in Brian Hawkins's voice) that his generation would be succeeded by a generation of Calvinists. And so... a generation of groundbreaking postmodernism has been succeeded by the New Positivism.) But I guess my implication about frameworks is that cultural historians write using data "from below," but not generally demographic/quantitative data, but cultural artifacts (art, literature, journals, letters, buildings, music, etc.) in order to draw conclusions in a more specific way, and to prove a point but not to make large political statements or form economic trajectories.

But as I said, the discussion left many adrift, including me. I was hoping to hear from the experts on the matter, and forgive me, but I didn't really. So--I've tried to clarify it for myself as written above. If you think I am way off base, please tell me, and tell me why!

Diego Rivera rip-off!

2009-10-06T19:39:00.001-07:00

Yes, here it is, the painting I rushed for Art Hop. I suspect I will be making some changes before I varnish (needs another layer or two, and Shane's air gun needs a hose!), but no time to work on it at present:

Yom Kippur fast-breaking

2009-09-29T18:52:00.000-07:00

Yesterday night, I went over to Friendly's for dinner (I'm currently commuting to UMass) and as you may also know, it was the end of Yom Kippur. It was well after dark, and I was all alone in the place until three neatly dressed young guys show up. They're breaking the fast; they said so to the waitress. She was a bit confused, though she mentioned she had Jewish roommates, and so the guys said, "oh, they're probably not good Jews!" And so they peruse the menus a bit longer, and here's what they order: bacon cheeseburgers, double-thick milkshake, chicken strips basket and ice cream! I was amused.

Readings: Maps of Time

2009-09-02T18:43:00.000-07:00

Well, leave it to David Christian to depress me. And on the large scale, at that. Christian's book, Maps of Time is "Big History." And Big History seems to be the newest (and probably the largest) framework ever. The macro-history is a blending of history and science, which provides a big picture view of the history and trajectory of the world, from the big bang and formation of the universe, to present times--and expanding outward towards the future.

Just reviewing this book seems like an impossible task. Let's just say that the majority of the book is a scientific history of the Earth which includes the physics of universe formation, the geology of earth formation, the beginnings of life on earth, and ends by tracing prehistory and then history of humanity, all the while highlighting synchronicity and repeating themes in science and human behavior, prehistory and modern history. He's like the Steven Strogatz of history. It's an overwhelming thing to convey, and to expect to keep in your head. But it isn't this part of the book that depresses me.

I do, in fact, believe that everything is connected. This belief affects my worldview, my historical inclinations, and my personal interactions. I don't think it's a practical way of writing most histories, but that's sort of beside the point. It's Christian's "Futures" section that is causing me pain.

Christian begins the chapter by comparing us (humans) to the inhabitants of Rapa Nui/Easter Island, and not in a good way. I mean that evidence suggests that the humans who colonized the land stayed, knowing there were limited resources, and still systematically destroyed all their resources and, in doing so, even their ability to escape the island. He writes that the generation who felled the last trees on the island in order to transport those giant stones knew what they were getting into, and still didn't stop the process. And here we are, on this tiny planet, doing the same damn thing.

Well, if that weren't enough to drive you to despair, Christian continues ever forward. He suggests what might become of humans in the next several thousands of years, and then moves on to what will happen when true Venusian global warming overcomes the earth and the sun turns into a white dwarf. And then what happens to the solar system and the galaxy, as they heat, cool and die. And finally, what of the universe? Most scientists have ruled out the 'big gnab' (I mean the reversal of the bang, of course) and agree that the universe will continue to expand, cool, and entropy will increase until the universe is a junkyard of cold matter. Eventually, no new stars will form and no energy will be present, matter will collapse into black holes which will evaporate and finally, no matter will exist around 10^10^76 years after the big bang.

So, why write history? Why do anything? Why did I read this book when I could have been reading a jolly good Wilkie Collins story?

Two swell movies, and one mediocre

2009-08-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

I don't have cable up in Milton, so last weekend's trip to Amherst supplied me with the first viewing of TCM I've had in years! I saw two good movies: "Grapes of Wrath" (the 1940 one, of course) and "Tokyo Joe," (1949) with Humphrey Bogart and Sessue Hayakawa (he was the featured star that night). Oh, and I also saw "The Farmer Takes a Wife" with a very, very young Henry Fonda, which was just goofy, but what are you going to do? Don't you prefer the Erie Canal to a farm?! Only if you've seen this movie will that sentence not seem like a non-sequitur.

Now, lots of people have seen "Grapes of Wrath," so I won't comment at length, but seeing it was a good reminder of what is fine filmmaking. And oh-so-timely. Also, I felt a little guilty about complaining about losing capital on the house. After all, I've never been bludgeoned by union busters or had my farm plowed under. And I was pleasantly surprised by Casy, who I felt I recognized, and for good reason: he was played by John Carradine. The scene near the end when Casy is explaining why he could no longer be a preacher--it took my breath away.

But--I found "Tokyo Joe" rather more fun--even though it was clear 10 minutes into the movie that it could not possibly end well. It features a real-honest-to-goodness "postethnic" moment (re: my last post) when, while the Japanese insurgent/mobster/criminal is being interrogated in Japanese, the [Asian-American] interrogator stops, sighs, and says something like, "I just don't get these goofy Orientals!"

"Tokyo Joe," is pretty fair to the Japanese in this postwar drama--Bogart goes back to Japan to resurrect a nightclub he was forced to leave during the war . . . and after having fought, he returns to find his old buddy Ito (Teru Shimada) tending the bar, and they have a good old judo session to renew the friendship. Of course, an old wife of his (now remarried) re-enters the picture, and some shady business besides, and you know Bogey is going to have to die. But not before saying the one dated line in the whole movie; something about the American presence in Japan being there so that the people will be able to "stand up on their hind legs" against oppressive leaders. So, I cringed of course, but smiled a little too, on the inside. I am, after all, a great believer in American democracy.

By the way, nobody steal that line about "Tokyo Joe" being postethnic! It's going in my book.

Readings: Postethnic America

2009-07-29T21:33:00.000-07:00

David Hollinger's Postethnic America seemed an appropriate follow-up to the last reading, as the two works reference one another, and Hollinger's idea appears to flow quite naturally from the [Roediger's] idea of "whiteness studies," which documents how varied European and Middle-eastern "races" came to be considered generically white (only sometimes, as I pointed out before). Hollinger's book is more fascinating reading (shall I say more provocative?) than Roediger's--for an experienced historian. While presumably Roediger is writing to a lay audience, Hollinger is writing to a community of historians, sociologists and ethnographers, in a work that straddles the boundaries of historiography and sociology.

The first part of the book, already 14 years old, covers some familiar ground, though the way he writes it is more interesting. For example, as he talks about Americans' conscious and unconscious choices of "ethno-racial blocs" he writes that Alex Haley's choice (to seek out his African roots as opposed to his Irish ones) is no choice at all--although I think in the intervening years between Roots and now, Haley's choice has become a significantly more real one. Hollinger also (thankfully) talks a little about the different perceptions of ethnicity from the distinctly racial pentagon to a more complex and detailed approach. While it's true that in some situations, people from one "ethno-racial bloc" will not notice or care about the finer distinctions in another, I happen to think no sensitive or intelligent person would fail to try. Do I care about the difference between Dominican and Puerto Rican? Of course! Or about Abenaki vs. Miwok? Sure!

What really grabs you in this book is Hollinger's attempt to trace multiculturalism from its roots (emerging somewhat oddly out of post WWII universalist perspectives) to current (mid-90s) academic infighting about how we should understand or express our multiculturalism, having eschewed ethnocentrism and universalism almost completely. He outlines the universalist concept, and then the emerging "paradigmatic" concept of history (creating a huge objectivity question in the field) and then the beginnings of multiculturalism, coinciding perhaps, with relativism. Hollinger tracks Richard Rorty's progression through stages and incarnations of multiculturalism through to the '90s, effectively showing the sometimes comical twists and turns of the academic perspective as we try to do the right thing by our multiple cultures.

Universalism, the new multiculturalists wrote, was a manifestation of our own Western (and possibly even American) ethnocentrist perspective, and therefore even the hopeful remarks about being one human family that shares the same struggles and emotions are, in fact, false. This led, in the extreme case, to historians, anthropologists and others taking the opposite view--and concluding that we cannot impose our Western/Judeo-Christian ideas of human rights on other cultures. Taken to its full extreme, it creates ethical problems for those of us concerned with the health and quality of life of other human beings, to say nothing of liberty (which, while perhaps a Western idea, has over 5000 years of historical strength as a desired state of being.)

Complicating matters are the cosmopolitan and the pluralist movements before and around multiculturalism, which ask the question, "how do we determine the many groups which are either making up the whole, or which continue to be un-unified parts?" Hollinger's idea of a postethnic society is one where all categories, layers and aspects of identity are in question--and given equal weight. "Consciously and critically locating oneself amid these layers," where everyone has a choice as to how they identify themselves, and without external identification. Rather than wanting to eliminate ethno-identity, Hollinger hopes that ethnicity can be boundary-less, multifaceted, and part of a much larger and more complex picture. Interestingly, this has some of the positive aspects of universalism, combined with a modern interpretation of the cultural pluralist thread.

Hollinger addresses the potential problems innate in the pursuit of a postethnic world, fairly eloquently, and a 2000 postscript was added, tracking some of the changes in thought about multiculturalism and the US at the end of the century. I think--I think!--that in the last nine years, America has made that much more progress towards a non-racial perspective--not because of policy changes, different phrasing of census questions, changes in affirmative action, or anything else like this--but simply because the composition of the United States is changing. The number of "mixed" relationships and blended backgrounds, families with multiple ancestral origins, adoptions outside a specific group, and people who choose to be affiliated with groups that they have little or no blood-tie to--all these are areas of growth. If we continue to silence the undercurrent of hate (which does exist, sadly) perhaps in time that too will fade, like an unused, vestigial organ.

Readings: Roediger and Ehrenreich

2009-07-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

I started my summer readings with a rereading of Novick's That Noble Dream, and first readings of David Roediger's Working Toward Whiteness, with a brief detour into Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed (not on the list, but which my mom was perusing for readings for her social justice class in the fall). Technically, another similarly titled Roediger book was on the list, but this was the one available here. Novick is an outlier and deserving of a full post so I will skip him for now. However, I was intrigued by the single blurb on the cover of Roediger's book, supplied by the Washington Post, "provocative." Well, I didn't find it terribly provocative--how's that for a provocative statement?

This doesn't mean I didn't find it a competent and readable history. It was. However, the concept of "whiteness studies" as a way of breaking the prevailing understanding of whiteness as a "norm," and the journey of Southern and Eastern European immigrants from "dark white" to "white" is not new to me. As a Californian, maybe, and a product of a parent and an historical moment concerned with ethnic origins, the sheer diversity within the category "white" has long been quite evident to me, and the origins and arrival times of various ethnic groups, along with the difficulties they faced--these stories have been with me since childhood. On top of European ethnic groups, California is also home to many Asian and South Asian ethnicities, "Black," African and Carribean ethnicities, and several indigenous groups as well. In the 70s and 80s, there was a lot of "roots" searching, and this phenomenon trickled down to schooling.

Added to this, I'm also aware that we're not living in a post-ethnic society for those deemed "white." While, on a form, a Croatian-, an Italian-, and an Irish-American may all select "white," that doesn't mean that there aren't people out there calling them "guinea," "mick" and who knows what else. There are. I've met them. And there are plenty of folks who still equate "Jew" with race or ethnicity, even though I do my best to make it clear that Judaism is a religion, and I feel strongly that that there are no "ethnic" Jews. And these things equate to a mild (or not so mild) racism, even if your term of choice is "ethnic." Some evidence (in an amusing and palatable form) can be seen in Gilbert Hernandez's comic Love and Rockets: A Rock 'n' Roll Headache from '89.

So you see it's not that I disagree with the premise of the book--Roediger is on the mark when he's speaking historically about transformations in ethnic groups arriving and living in America, and the parallel path of African-Americans, who did not have the benefit of being able to change race. But I would argue that only in some settings have certain groups effectively changed race. Another point that Roediger discusses, though it's not his main point, is the arbitrariness of the term "race." As I understand it, it is an unscientific term at best, and at worst it is a manipulation of perception. Percival Everett puts this quite well in Erasure when the character Monk talks about why society has deemed him "Black." If I felt an historical evaluation of the term "race" was the primary point of the book, and if it were written in the style of Frantz Fanon, then perhaps I would have called it "provocative."

Ehrenreich's book I also had ambivalent feelings about. I realize I am a late reader, but I'm sure it remains on reading lists everywhere. On one hand, it is an important bit of investigation, showing not only the near impossibility of rising out of the mire of minimum wage employment, and revealing the poor quality of life so many people have who are effectively "passing" for middle class. However, I felt a bit wary of someone who dips into blue collar life for a month or two, being myself someone who has been living a real honest-to-goodness blue collar life. And as my mom and I were talking about the book, we were both taken aback by some of Ehrenreich's own prejudices--she comes across as ageist, insensitive about Alzheimers patients (oddly, I thought) and at times irritatingly judgmental of people around her (which I noted that she sometimes admits to, in the writing).

We agreed that she's firmly within her own head, which makes this different from an ethnographer, or an historian, a novelist, or Studs Terkel--all of whom either make an attempt to be in someone else's head, or take the materials back to the subjects and say, "these were my impressions--am I on the mark?" There was a queer absence of follow-up with her coworkers--and I say this with the conviction that my coworkers will be lifelong friends, if they want it. At any rate, I'm sure that this book has raised some consciousnesses. But I wonder how many, as we struggle onward in the rising waters of low wages, unemployment, high rents, and outsourcing of jobs and industry to countries where we can exploit labor legally for peanuts.

Apocalyptic dreams

2009-07-19T07:19:00.000-07:00

Okay, in the first I believe I was in a city--maybe Chicago, but not resembling any city I've actually visited. I guess I was there with my mom--maybe for a conference. At some point, I needed some item and headed for a big-box store (I don't know, maybe Wal-Mart--not because I ever go there, but because we were talking about it yesterday.) While looking for the item, I ran into 恺, and we talked for a minute, and then I saw John K., and we were talking when a large blast shattered the huge windows at the front of the store, and icy gusts of rain and hail were blowing in. I stood there for a minute in wonder, but not really thinking about the cause. At that moment, for me, it was just an isolated incident. And then I realized that this was a symptom of something much bigger. Perhaps a terrific storm that was going to destroy everything in its wake. John screamed (sorry John, just a dream) and I grabbed his hand and we ran for a bit--away--and when I looked at my cell-phone there was no service.

We stopped somewhere safe (I'm sure there were lots of people milling about in confusion still) and I pulled out a map, and we were looking at these territories (which I can't now name, but it was not local counties or states or anything recognizable). John and I talked about which place would be the safest to travel to, and then I realized I had a cell signal again, and I either called or received a call from mom, which said she would meet us at the hotel. She seemed less alarmed, and I said to John, I guess you can come with me to the hotel, or head on by yourself. And then I woke up, briefly.

When I fell back asleep, I dreamed I was wandering around some town or city, doing something innocuous, when I saw a group of goggled people leaving a theater, and I followed them. They seemed to be in varying stages of blindness, or something similar, and they seemed to be moving under duress. Somehow I became part of the group--and part of a subgroup of new people. The new people were not yet blind. We arrived at what I perceived as a prison/dormitory made from a converted building of some other type. The place itself was not unpleasant, but the imprisonment or internment was clear, as was I guess the hopelessness for the future. I saw everyone else getting settled in their rooms, and then I found 'mine;' it was not in my name, but someone else's. And then I woke up

Uncle Silas and Cambodia

2009-07-05T19:11:00.000-07:00

Well, I got sacked again! Not enough work. But this leaves me some extra time to fix the house, which is slowly getting improved for sale: new tile in the bathroom, new light fixtures inside and out, stained cabinetry and ceiling trim, finished tin ceiling, repainting, new cabinet handles, plants weeded, etc... Also, I'm getting a lot of non-required reading done now, as I imagine my fall reading will be a combination of histories, historiography and student papers.

The two I just finished are in no way connected. Uncle Silas is a Victorian gothic thriller (not really a 'mystery,' as it is billed) by J. Sheridan LeFanu. And Cambodia: A book for people who find television too slow, by Brian Fawcett, is a work of 'fiction' which reads like a combination of personal essay and social commentary. I enjoyed Silas, but I fell in love with Cambodia.

Uncle Silas is very much in the vein of Ann Radcliffe's work, such as The Mysteries of Udolpho, and in fact the main character Maud mentions Radcliffe more than once. However, LeFanu is not prone to writing endless descriptions of the Pyrenees or inserting three pages of poetry, and so the work is 400 pages instead of 800 pages. LeFanu also jumps right into the mystery--but perhaps this is because 1860s readers had slightly less need of books that lasted through the entire winter months as perhaps Radcliffe's readers in the 1790s had need of? However, Radcliffe is more realistic in her portrayal of courtship, I think, and her scenes at Udolpho (with Count Montoni) are quite compelling--whereas the estate at Bartram-Haugh (and Silas himself) never reach the same level of hatefulness. It drove me nuts waiting for Emily to escape, but I didn't feel the same urgency for Maud until the very end.

One interesting character, Milly, is a new one to me: a young (16-18) lady of the upper classes who has been so neglected in her childhood that she has read nothing, speaks like a 'dairy-maid' and runs freely around the estate, giving people cheeky nicknames and trespassing on neighboring properties. Some of the characters in Uncle Silas are followers of Swedenborg, and while I originally got the feeling that this was supposed to cast suspicion upon them, in fact (luckily for Swedenborgians) both Bryerly and Austin Ruthyn are blameless in the novel. I'd say this is a great book to read beside the fireplace in the dead of winter, with a cup of hot chocolate and a kitty on your lap.

And Cambodia: A book for people who find television too slow, by the Canadian author Fawcett, was totally unexpected. First of all, it changed the way I define fiction. Fawcett's stories combine the essay form, history, commentary on recent news and events, conversations with dead people, speculations or hypothetical situations, detailed explanations of the mundane functions of bureaucracy, conversations with friends and personal experiences. And they are incredibly compelling, sometimes funny, and often chilling. And on the bottom third of every page in a smaller font is an essay about Cambodia (written around 1985 about the events, mostly post-Vietnam, leading up to the Khmer Rouge regime, the Khmer Rouge, and then the subsequent Vietnamese invasion--and also about the western response and portrayal of these events.)

At the very beginning and throughout, Fawcett is suspicious of, and maybe disdainful of 'subtext,' the 'global village' and other such burgeoning concepts of the '80s. He writes about the inherent divisions between the academic 'in the know' and all others, and the growing loss of personal political involvement, the uselessness of the bureaucratic decision-making process, the lack of national memory for events like the Kent State protest/shooting, and the way globalization (perhaps in its current/capitalist form) is detrimental to many (most?). And what I assume are some personal details sneak their way in... in "The Fat Family Visits the Fair," his friend Howard (to all appearances a real person) ends up 'creating' the (non-existent) Cambodia pavilion at the World's Fair, and subsequently commits suicide. And the abruptness and reality of it hit me like a sandbag. I was knocked over.

If this is fiction--and he says it is--have I been playing it wrong. And I thought: where has this been?--why haven't I seen this before? I can't sit here and describe the stories. They pack a much better punch when you just read them. So, just read them!

Rice farmers (mew)

West, punch list

2009-06-28T19:47:00.000-07:00

There is a tenuous connection between my work story this week and Morris West's The Devil's Advocate, but since I want to talk about both, I will go ahead and make it. My workweek was half spent helping Mark Judge rock and tile my bathroom with subway tile, and half spent at the Naylor & Breen jobsite building "affordable" housing.

There are a lot of new guys on the jobsite, which is on the border of Winooski and Colchester, but Russ, Pat and Jimmy are holdovers from the old days of LWB, and Pat had only just arrived on site fresh from working with Doug in Cambridge. Of course, they three were happy to see me, and I them. My role is punch list (post stair installation--meaning kneewalls, soffits and handrail blocking) as well as cutting the notched stair stringers. Aside from the suspicious site supervisor (always), there was much laughter. Pat says (about a comment he just made), "no, that's not where I want to be when Jesus comes back!" Russ says, "I want to burn one with Miriam one day," and Jimmy confides in me about his wage being dropped $3 an hour. I feel as if these guys are my brothers.

And then there's Ben. Ben holds himself apart--not, I think, because he's the boss, but because he can't relate. After all, Doug (Ben's business partner) revels in earthy dialogue. But one very hot day last week, I went up to Ben's truck at lunch to ask a question, and he was hunched over, soaking his head and everything else with a bottle of water (he'd been up on the second floor deck setting walls with a crane). It seemed a very solitary and even private moment, and I'd almost not wanted to intrude. Later, Pat and I were sitting in the back of the Subaru laughing, and I (we?) were also watching Ben alone 50 feet away. When I first started working with him three years ago, I thought that he spent so little time talking with me about Japan, or Graham Greene, because he didn't want to cultivate that image in front of the rest of the crew--but now I see that it's not only that. I enjoy everyone (almost everyone) on the jobsite, on some level, and hearing them talk, well, it's like Studs Terkel's 'vox humana.'

And I remembered, in The Devil's Advocate, Meredith ruminates on this: "Other priests, he knew, found an intense pleasure in the raw, salty dialect of peasant conversation. They picked up pearls of wisdom and experience over a farmhouse table or a cup of wine in a workman's kitchen. They talked with equal familiarity to the rough tongued whores of Trastevere and the polished signori of Parioli ... They were good priests, too, and they did much for their people, with a singular satisfaction to themselves."

I like this novel very much, as I did Shoes of the Fisherman and Eminence, though it is a good deal older than those two Varican novels. In a way, it sets the precedent for them (and also the formula), but was written before Vatican II and the reforms of John XXIII. It's interesting to make a comparison of these three, because (in West's inimitable formula!) each main character undergoes a great personal transformation assisted by an impossibly ideal friendship (often between two unequal in rank) and in which the personal transformation has effects which reach into the personal lives of other characters in the novels, mostly for good. West is a Christian believer's author, where Greene is a Christian doubter's author.

Some elements of this 1959 work are surprising to me: West's rather sensitive portrayal of homosexuality (which gets even more sensitive in the more modern works) and his rather interesting portrait of the similarities and friendships between Jews and Catholics--a relationship I feel exists, but is often ignored. And West usually includes a man whose character is too beautiful to believe, but who the reader can't help but love: in this, it's Aurelio, the bishop of Valenta. Aurelio is the gentle push that sends Meredith into a renewed, if short life working as 'promoter of the faith' in a sainthood investigation.

Aurelio's suggestion to Meredith to carry a flask of grappa, and sweets, to Gemello Minore, brings me back, full circle, to work, and what it means to sit and listen and take part in conversation with people who live very different lives than me, to be as their sister, to be part of the human family.

Spooky Philadelphia (mew)

Sammler's Planet

2009-06-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

I read my first Bellow some months ago--Henderson the Rain King. I suppose I liked bits of it, but the general effect on me was this sort of painful embarrassment and so I left off somewhere around page 100 with the feeling of impending humorous doom, and read the last five pages or so, which left me rather unsatisfied about what had transpired. After all, it is not a Mike Hammer mystery with the killer revealed on the last page. But anyway, I just couldn't concentrate on finishing the book, and moved on.

While I was in Chicago I stopped by the Old Neighborhood, and by Unabridged Books. They have a rather large Penguin collection, and I found Mr. Sammler's Planet, and encouraged by the description, I bought it. I did, after all, need something to read on the trip back. This book, too had a similar point-of-no-continuing for me (somewhere in the 80s, I think) but I persisted onward this time. I think (before I get down to the novel itself) that Saul Bellow's ideas appeal to me, but I find the particular way he executes them tiresome.

Mr. Sammler's Planet is about an academic--a Holocaust survivor too--in what must have seemed like a tumultuous 1970. The plot defies explanation (perhaps to Sammler's satisfaction: early in the novel he disparages the culture of explanation). Also, interestingly, this character Sammler seems like he might be an approximation of Bellow himself. I wondered, as the book's narrative snakes in and out of Sammler's long reveries, if these thoughts are the thoughts Bellow was having as he travelled through the city, observed its inhabitants, interacted with his friends and family. But, I realize this is too easy an assumption to make. At any rate, Sammler is less than capable of human feeling (compassion, maybe), though he approximates it. The book takes him through a series of historical events in his own life (and outside it) and through modern life of 1970, introducing us to his remaining family and his friends and benefactors. They are all subject to Sammler's silent and scathing criticism, though he appears to love them too. Modern life though--or modern thought--distresses, angers, unnerves, makes no sense to him. He is particularly concerned with sexual paradigm, and with the emphasis on individuality (as demonstrated in psychotherapy, clothing, the increased interest in cultural ancestry, art, etc.) which he perceives as self-serving behavior.

Oddly, Sammler's main complaint with one of his more likable family-members, Margotte, is that she talks on and on about theoretical subjects--which Sammler himself does even more often--which suggests what he lacks is not exactly compassion, but insight. He has also (in the search for a common? old world? civilized? existence) forsaken emotion, humor, sentimentality ("a man who looks upon all mortal foolishness with hostile condescension," writes Stanley Crouch). It is arguable what exactly happens... I suspect the events that take place as his friend Elya nears death (the assault on the pickpocket, the incident with Govinda Lal's manuscript, his daughter's mental illness and Elya's children's shortcomings) are like small steps toward humanity for Sammler. It occurs to me, as it may have to others, that a survivor of attempted genocide would find compassion a difficult, maybe foreign emotion, just as Holocaust survivors often renounced faith. Sammler reluctantly and irritably believes in God, because he cannot conceive the absence of God, but instead he has renounced humanity--and then returned to it.

One of the most fascinating and encouraging things about this novel was reading Sammler's thoughts: untruncated, difficult, far-reaching and diverse. The thoughts are tenuously connected, but attaching and detaching themselves like electrons to a molecule, or like brief connections between neurons. History, philosophy and science tied together with the lightest of strings, like a web--I loved the speed of the connections. Not stream-of-consciousness, but a consciousness accurately described in writing. This book does not end neatly--just as it does not read neatly. However, it is strangely and touchingly, multifacetedly human.

Guard goat, Milton (mew)

Bellow and Bowles

2009-06-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

Bellow made me catch my breath the other day, as he seldom does, with this passage: 'And what is "common" about the "common life"? What if some genius were to do with "common life" what Einstein did with "matter"? Finding its energetics, uncovering its radiance.'

Interesting reading, recently--some new to me, some not. I thought I'd share some thoughts about a couple of recent reads: Mr. Sammler's Planet (Bellow), and Let it Come Down (Bowles); maybe I'll touch briefly on these two old favorites: Doctor Fischer of Geneva or the Bomb Party (Greene) and The Devil's Advocate (West).

As I began Let it Come Down, I felt a slight sense of character deja-vu, and after thinking for awhile I decided that Dyar was reminding me of Jim Dixon, of Lucky Jim. Even despite the fact that Dixon is English, and Dyar is quite American. I think this has something to do with the time--a gestalt?--of the early 1950s (1952 and 1954 respectively). But where Dixon is mired in England, English values and academic work, Dyar has just arrived in Morocco, at a politically ephemeral moment, without a clear prospect or understanding of the work he is supposed to be taking with his acquaintance Wilcox. It is apparent in the first few pages, without the aid of an introduction or a back-cover blurb, that Wilcox's operation is a front for illegal business, but Dyar seems innocent, ignorant--bloody stupid. I'll admit to feeling this way about Dyar until the fourth part, at which point I'm not sure quite how to understand him, if I can't see him as a blundering idiot--then what? He is portrayed, maybe purposefully, as a blank slate, an empty vessel: even Daisy says this when she reads his palm at the beginning. Somewhat oddly, I had another recollection of a similarly empty innocent--Pyle (Greene, The Quiet American, 1955)--though ostensibly Pyle is not living a "purposeless" life.

So, if I am horrified (I am) by Dyar in almost every way, I'm not sure how Bowles intended the reader to feel--if he intended at all. His other characters are flawed--Thami, Eunice, Daisy, Hadija--but not hateful. And it is as if Dyar, by his arrival in Tangier, upsets the precariously balanced ecosystem made up of varied political, social and economic interests in the international zone. By the finish, he has unraveled everything for himself--by missing a bank appointment, by taking off with 1,260,000 pesetas, by killing Thami in a haze of majoun hashish. Because (why?, I asked. Because) something has to happen in his life? Because he wanted to be sure he was alive? Or for no reason at all?

Bowles, at least in this novel, is not quite the fine storyteller Greene is, and so I'm left (as I never am with Greene) with quite a lot of doubt about the intention. It seems, among other things, somewhere between farce and tragedy, and about the evil of innocence, possibly of rationality (in opposition to morality). However, some readers may see this as a strength (for every individual his own interpretation). There is an unarguable strength, which left me wanting more, and that was the essence of Morocco in the thing. Its foreigners (Holland, in particular, is a small bright spot) and its natives, and also the dancer with the knife in some of the final pages--a scene which I recognized from "Moon Over Morocco" and from which I could remember the music and singing (which were taken from Paul Bowles' recordings.)

Continued...

Marble tombstone in Westford. (mew)

Work exchange

2009-06-18T17:38:00.000-07:00

Me: "Oh, sorry, I should have put [the studs in the kitchen soffit] on the other side of the trusses [so the bracing would be neater]."
Ben: "It's not a violin."

Cities large and small

2009-06-16T07:50:00.001-07:00

Just got back from Chicago. I had a rough time with JetBlue on the return flight--it looked like I was going to be stranded at JFK, even as the plane sat at the gate, but with the gate closed and locked--but at the last second they opened it and let the four of us locked-out folks on. Then we sat on the runway probably for an hour. I saw a string of planes: Etihad (United Arab Emirates), Emirates (ditto, I assume), Qatar, Swiss (the odd one out). Back in Burlington at 1am. Williston Rd. was sweetly peaceful, how about that? By the way, Etihad has what I assume to be the UAE emblem on its tail, a very sinister and fascist-looking bird (a falcon, most likely). I feel like a change is in order, if only for reasons of public-relations. If the falcon had its wings raised in flight, for example, it would look 100 times less fascist.

I'll post a bit later about Chicago, but in the meantime I have pictures of Rutland, which I took on a research trip down to Proctor, home of the Vermont Marble Company. I was doing a little research into the early nursing at Proctor, the first industrial or occupational health nurse, Ada Stewart, who was hired in 1895. In addition, if I find anything about the mostly Italian and Finnish (and a few Irish) workers, so much better.

Because the Proctor Free Library is closed between 11 am and 2 pm, I had plenty of time to head into the city of Rutland, which has a style very distinct from Burlington (the largest VT city) and even from St. Albans, which has a little more grit, if you will. Rutland, from a distance, has the look of a city, with a main street row of tall buildings (between six and 12 stories, probably), all of a vintage between, say 1890 and 1940. It could easily pass for a small city in some noir fiction, I think. There are a number of large houses up the hill from the downtown. Some are subdivided, some aren't. There is obviously a lot of marble in use, in a lot of different applications; an obvious result of its proximity to Vermont Marble.

It was raining slightly as I walked around, which gave it a certain misty appeal. A Chinese place:

A motorcycle store window:

A warehouse (ha, ha):

More shortly.

Crane and trusses at Essex

2009-06-09T13:52:00.000-07:00

Another dream

2009-06-08T16:42:00.000-07:00

I dreamed that I had gotten off an elevator, I suspect in a building where each floor is one flat, because I basically walked out to find a husband and wife hanging pictures in an artfully lit hallway. The first ones I saw were portraits, like ink on glass, lit from behind, possibly with candles. They greeted me as if I ought to be there, and so I said (because I thought I recognized the man) "do you have a blog?"

He said, "Well, yes, but I only use it professionally." And so decided that this was not the person I thought it was, but I continued to stroll down the hall looking at the art. I saw one very large canvas with a few clouds hovering right at the edge. It was unframed. And then I was at their kitchen. They were back there, cooking, and so they asked me what specialty I was planning on. At this point I said, "oh, you're a doc." I thought I might leave, but at that point the wife started to give me some unsolicited advice.

There were a couple of guests at the door. The doc stood there talking to one, while the other came in and started to look at a stack of records(?). It was Jeff Goldblum. He was wearing a Harvard sweatshirt under a tweed blazer, and before I could reconsider it, I said, "oh, I see you decided to wear your costume from 'The Big Chill.'" He looked at me rather icily.

I thought I'd blew it with the only celebrity I'd ever meet by being cheeky, so I sat down on the couch and said, "so, how are you?" Surprisingly, he answered, but very softly--I could hardly hear him. We were talking about the piano when I woke up.

Good dream/bad letter

2009-05-11T20:41:00.000-07:00

Well, 艾恺 was in my dream last night. I don't know why, but we were talking by a tennis court, and 恺 said (about the tennis player/instructor on the court), "He said to me [lowers voice an octave], 'I've never cried in my entire life!'" and we laughed and I said, "Well, buddy, good for you!" There was more, but this is the only exchange I remember.

I also received my fourth rejection letter in the mail today, essentially nullifying the sweet remains of my dream. But I was not shocked. This makes rejections from Ploughshares, The Sun, Green Mountains Review, and Poetry East, for a total of 3 stories and 6 poems rejected. I will try again, I guess, but it's hard not to just say, "well, I must be a talentless hack after all."

Quality control training was led today by a man named "Rock" Rockwell. He reminded me of someone--I had a hard time deciding who. He either winked or had a tic (purposeful) which was like Herbert Lom's in the Panther series, but he looked more like Darren McGavin. Still, it was entertaining enough, although Wanda would have gotten us out of there a few hours earlier. Wanda knows how to whip through those training manuals. I suspect the work, even here, will not last so long, and so I may have to take LWB up on their offer of part-time work. I shudder to think! But I need the money.

For more of the ongoing English from Spanish from English translation (is that like 'a woman, pretending to be a man, pretending to be a woman'?) of La Caseta Mágica, read onward here.

Three unrelated images

2009-05-05T17:57:00.000-07:00

Second trip to Amherst moderately successful. Met with a realtor, saw a few houses, did a lot of driving around neighborhoods. Went to the Carle Museum. Became sad over selling my house. Saw "The Old Curiosity Shop" on PBS without pixelation and of course without the now antiquated "snow."

Here is a shot I took of the telephone pole outside my house. You could climb up it, I suppose--it's pretty old. My house, by the way, is 101 years old, and was most likely a mill foreman's house, for the old paper mill down the hill that is now the hydroelectric plant. If you walk down there, you can see the old foundations, and at some point someone stood some of the millstones upright. They look like strange druid totems on a cloudy day. I mean, there's not much fascinating about Milton, but occasionally you find something cool.

And here's a Harry shot. He is so aesthetically pleasing:

And finally, here is Tina's stupid porch. I still have to build the door and screen it:

Canvassing is almost over. We have done our job too well, and there will be no more new work for awhile now. I will miss the adventures. In a totally unrelated thoughtstream, if you would like to read my first attempts at Spanish translation (in preparation for the doctoral program) you can find them here. I'm working on The Phantom Tollbooth.

House dreams

2009-05-01T19:29:00.000-07:00

Before I actually got in bed, I fell asleep in the chair downstairs, with my legs up over one arm and by back braced against the other. I had managed to nestle my head in at a strange angle against the back of the chair. At which point I dreamt about very hilly, perhaps even mountainous address canvassing, which was displayed in a dot-graph-like form in my head. Very rough terrain, as it were. There was an additional confusion, and maybe irritation, about evangelical involvement. When I woke up--just barely enough to stumble upstairs--I reflected that sleeping position has an influence on dreams--surely a great discovery for the oneirological world! Since I was positioned like a valley between two peaks, so was my dream. I also thought that the evangelical aspect of the dream, which created some difficulty in my graphing, probably was the cause of my pain in the neck!

Probably a long while after I fell asleep upstairs, I started to dream about my house (this one, above) and the neighborhood--or rather, the house's relation to the neighborhood. I remember an ominous feeling at one point (I suppose I was already worried) and when I looked out the window, I saw quite a bit of damage (or was it decay?) done to the two neighboring houses. Let me stop for a minute, and explain what the landscape around the house looked like: it was as if we were in a quarry, long overgrown of course, but at the bottom of an immense rock wall, and the houses were backed up to it. They were all quite small and skinny. My house looked in reasonable condition, but the one on the left of me did not. It was sea-green with either asbestos shingle siding or tarpaper (yes they don't usually make tarpaper in that color) which was in very bad condition. I had assumed, up until now, that someone lived in the house, but I saw huge tears in it, and the garage was ballooned out on all sides, as if compression might make for a collapse.

On the right side of my house was a small white house with red trim, and at first I assumed major damage had been done, but perhaps it had come loose of its foundation. I called (someone) for assistance. I think, at this point, I was hearing the terrible wind outside rattling my windows in conjunction with the rain on my metal roof. Who came but Harrison Concrete (more on this later), and they first took the white house and lifted it by crane to a craggy crevice a little further up the mountain. Then they started to tear apart--well peel away--segments of the green house. You could hardly tell it had been framed at all. Pieces of wall came off like wet paper, like butter. I was more than disturbed. The rest of the neighborhood seemed to be intact, but who could tell?

I went to have a look inside the white house, which Harrison had claimed for himself. It was metal all around, like a white cookie tin. It seemed to be in good shape on the inside, and I asked what happened and I suppose Harrison told me that the owner had abandoned it--I wonder why? I suppose I wanted to get away from all that--so I started to look through some DVDs (still dreaming, though I could feel Harry curl up around my arm for protection) and I found "The Sandlot," which was not really "The Sandlot," but it started off with two boys racing cars in a bomb shelter, yes it did.

I'm not one for asking others to provide dream analysis because after all, what significance could their assumptions have on my dreams? I think that house worry is a common theme for me, especially after having purchased. But I find it interesting that the neighborhood had such a different character than my own, or even the neighborhoods I've been canvassing, unless the houses in true disrepair are getting to me more than I think they are. I also recall, when we lived in El Cerrito, wondering if a certain shabby house was even inhabited, since I never saw anyone go in or out. Of course, my schedule did keep me from seeing midday weekday occurrences, but I think it still weighed a little. There is something very sad and queer about an empty house (not for sale, not new construction--just sitting empty). I suppose it makes me think of possible causes: plagues, death, etc. My own neighborhood is thoroughly inhabited, though down the road on 7 there are some really big contemporary houses that are vacant, and have a faded, fallen-down real estate sign in front, long crushed from the snow. In conjunction with some eerie wind chimes and a hot day (it was 90) I felt my skin crawl.

Harrison, the other aspect of the dream, comes quite naturally as the topic of discussion amongst neighbors (his business intends to erect wind-turbines on Georgia mountain, which I am not opposed to, but the people with land abutting or on Georgia mountain do oppose. I think this is not very neighborly) and then seeing Harrison Concrete working on a new subdivision on Westford Rd., which I canvassed yesterday.

On the route

2009-04-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

First off, I am really pretty depressed about having heard nothing from UMass with regards to fellowships or assistantships. Apart from the money issue (which I could really use), I can only conclude that everyone's happy to make money off me, but no one has any confidence in my scholarship or my ability to be a good TA, which is, well, really depressing. I know one is not supposed to rely on external validation for self-worth, but this is getting pretty bad. No job, no money: no one thinks I can do anything for them. You would think I was a brain-dead sponge. Nope, can't use those library/computer/design/research/historian/writing/editing/carpentry skills.

I finished my first assigned area yesterday, and got a new one within an hour (and between areas, I went to the Depot to buy some railings for Tina's porch). I spent about 9.5 hours working on a rather large area today (I took it on my bike, as it is local) which spread from the hopping city center of Milton out into the hinterlands of Milton. You say, "Milton can't be that big!" and you are correct, but I saw parts of Milton I have never seen before.

The first area was right around my house (about 450 residences) and ranged from poor to middle-class. There were some ultra-paranoid people, and some very nice people, including a few who invited me into their houses, which I mostly had to refuse. A youngish grandmother was quite helpful, and the seniors at the senior housing were alright too. A naturalist wanted me to take her classes. Most folks just looked some combination of puzzled and irritated. A twentysomething girl and a 40ish man were downright hostile. But that was really no comparison for today.

I started out on North, which intersects Main and goes up toward Georgia and toward the top of Arrowhead Mountain Lake, which is a segment of the Lamoille River. The road starts out with a row of bland rectangular living units: some trailers, some modular, some just contemporary with beige siding. I guess there are a few older homes in the mix, but mostly post 1960. The landscape quickly changes into farmland, fewer houses, larger houses, and the Husky Plant. I saw a brick farm with carpenter gothic details around the roof area, but it was across the road and not in my area. It also had a huge cross attached to it.

Anyway, I came across the sheriff's house, and the sheriff. And I went along further and turned onto some other streets which were a bit more swanky. Not all, but some. Developments from the 80s I think, with a few older and a few newer interspersed. I happened upon one house, one guy (who came out to talk to me for a half hour or more) who gets by, by making pickles and mounting deer antlers. He heats his house and big separate workshop with wood burning boilers which run radiant heat through the floors (as my mom has), and he makes a point of getting the wood for free. Boy, he could talk! I liked him well enough though.

Further on down the road it got pretty rural--folks who'd rather not be found, I guess... although I wonder what the point is of putting a house down a long, winding and foresty drive, and then making it a big, white, ostentatious colonial revival. And then leaving a bunch of junk around the yard, and a rusted-out car, too. So I finished up the end of the road and turned back. Very close to North again, I encountered a friendly, barrel-chested bearded man who said, "Oh! I see we're getting counted!" and I had to say, "Oh, sorry, not yet!" (addresses only for now). I was happy to get a happy reception though. It seems rare.

Back onto North I had the weirdest and most annoying encounter. Only seconds away from a friendly family living in complete disarray, I found the biggest and most pretentious looking gentleman's (or gentlewoman's) horse farm. I could not find the address anywhere (not uncommon, sadly), and I was trying to find out if there were any additional houses on the property. Well, there was at least one adult there--the trunk of the Subie was open, and I heard footsteps bounding through the house. No one answered the door, or my calls. I saw a woman coming from the back of the farm in a big black SUV and I tried to wave her down (I jogged a little towards the car and waved) and she looked right at me, and drove right by! Well, needless to say I was REALLY MAD. I had half a mind to tap "does not exist" on my little screen there, but I didn't. I made an assumption about the address and moved on. But really. Even if I was a Jehovah's Witness or from the LDS, I mean they really couldn't just answer the door?

Out the window, they see a short female dressed in business casual on a bike with a tag on a lanyard and a handheld computer. Is that really terrifying? See first paragraph for possible connection. I've talked to, oh, probably over 100 people on my routes so far (and some have hid from me!) and you know I didn't start this job being wary of people, but maybe I am now!

Address Canvassing (Census)

2009-04-17T19:38:00.001-07:00

While I was updating the census maps and address list, I had an opportunity to check out the long abandoned rail station, located (of course) next to the tracks on Railroad St. It was right on my route, and I wanted to make sure no one was camped out there, because if someone was, I'd have to make a map spot.

It has clearly gotten a lot of graffiti and glass-breakage over the years--I guess it's better that the kids go here to be destructive than somewhere else. I didn't find anyone camped out, or even any evidence of that--which maybe surprised me a little, considering that I've seen people sleeping under the counter at the laundromat--but it is awfully messy and dangerous in the rail-station, so it really isn't conducive to camping out.

My cell-phone pictures don't do the building justice, sadly, but I will return with black and white film to really get some nice contrasty images. Everything was very still, and the chickadees (or are they nuthatches?) were flitting from tree to building.

I had some nice cooperative people (such as at the senior housing), some neutral people, and some mean and/or scary people on my routes. I also saw a number of pit-bulls and Am Staffordshire Terriers, I think, which are the short-haired ones that maul people sometimes? I wondered what people are so worried about that they train their dogs to growl and lunge at a person arriving quite neutrally in broad daylight, and announcing themselves. I was forced to take map spots from further away in some cases because I thought if I approached the stairs, I would get bitten or worse.

There are an awful lot of paranoid people here in Milton, or maybe in the world. Very suspicious, even when I tell people who I am, show them an ID badge, hand them a sheet about the confidentiality of the census, and say that I'm only updating addresses. One not-too-bright individual told me, after I'd said this, "I don't want any!" Want any what? Are you listening to what I'm saying here? Good grief, don't answer the door if you're only going to be mean--I knocked lightly and I'll go away when I'm done updating my maps, if you don't answer, [jerk.] What's funny is that the people who are most likely to form a militia are living on such bucolic-sounding streets as "Lovely Ln." and "Aurora Ln." Sweet_enemy mentioned earlier that the Bureau of Ironic Names must've been through beforehand.

The job is intermittently worrisome, and mostly boring. But I will update if I find any other interesting abandoned places.

How to! Part 6

2009-04-17T17:47:00.000-07:00

Well, things are getting close. I won't write too much here--if you want to know how I determined the rafter length and pitch, and how I cut the bird's-mouth on the rafters, just comment and I will tell all. Suffice it to say that I decided to put the rafters on a 19.2 (diamonds) layout--because I had just enough lumber for that, and it looked evenly spaced. Ordinarily, I would stack them on top of the studs, for load-bearing, but on a playhouse it really isn't necessary.

Then I cut the sheets of 1/2 inch plywood to size, painted the inside light sky blue, and installed them with screws to the rafters. Because of the small size and rigidity, I did not need to pull the rafters to layout, but ordinarily you could not skip this step. Here it is--you can see a little of the under-blue:

I also put ice and water shield on the roof, but no pictures for that! Roofing next...

Can't touch the New Deal

2009-04-15T19:41:00.000-07:00

I'm behind in my postings for the dumb screened-porch, but I had something more pressing on my mind for this entry. I got an email from Vermont Arts Council, famous local grant-awarding organization, about a $250,000 allotment from the federal government, to be managed by VAC, for the purpose of distribution to non-profit arts organizations to: retain employees that would be lost, due to economic conditions, or to pay fees for previously engaged artists which the organization could no longer afford.

You can read the details here.

Now, here's what bugging me. (You thought perhaps I wrote this to get the word out? I didn't.) It's not that I fault the government for spending the money. $250,000 is peanuts. And it's not that I have anything against VAC, non-profit arts orgs, or perish-forbid, artists themselves. But I find this to be not a very useful, or efficient way to direct the flow money, and ultimately spend it.

The VAC plans on giving grants of $5000 to small orgs, and $10,000 to large ones. Let me break this down, in terms of payment:

A small organization will be able to pay ONE employee, full time, for about 6 months, at a bare-minimum wage ($5.25 an hour, about). Or in VT, since minimum is about $8, they will be able to support a full-time employee for about 3 and a half months. A large organization might pay a part-time employee (let's change it up here) for 6 to 12 months (depending on hours)--but the part-time employee had better be supported by a wage-earning spouse, or have a nice bank account already. A small or large organization may choose to pay for an artist-in-residence, or performance artists who are already booked. Read: one/few, no new hires, no new work in this budget.

My problem is not with the funding itself--fine, it has a purpose, and the purpose is sound enough. But the funds 1) are not enough to retain employees, and 2) go through a network of orgs before reaching the artist--if they reach the artist at all. Employees to be retained (not that there's anything wrong with this, but...) may not be artists at all--even if they are important to the function of the organization.

What I'm ultimately getting at here is... probably shockingly socialist. But once upon a time, the government used it's own (well, taxpayer, ultimately) money to fund DIRECT arts programs. I'm not saying there wasn't bureaucratic red-tape there too. But I, artist, would have been able to apply to one of many programs, and possibly be HIRED to do the work I AM GOOD AT. And thousands like me. Not to become an administrative assistant at a non-profit arts organization, or an event-planner for an arts festival. An actual artist, doing work for the government, in or on or at public sites and structures, or for the public good.

Instead, because we wouldn't want to seem too socialist, we funnel money through lots of little organizations, which each have an operating budget and at least 1 employee, and what's left of the money goes to the promotion of a select few artists, who are then thrown on the mercy of the public market/economy to either make it or fail, sink or swim--get their art purchased, or not. I would rather be a wage-earner building, painting murals, collecting oral histories, recording folk songs or acting in a play for the public benefit, than scramble around looking for ever-decreasing grant money and hoping that some buyer will help me break even on my art materials, while I work full-time at a dead-end job to make ends meet. Perhaps this, in someone's mind, is "on the dole," and perhaps in a lot of minds, I'm saying something unAmerican. But to my mind this is trickle-down economics as applied to non-profit organizations and their recipients. I didn't like government funding of charities for the same reason--not on religious grounds, but because I think it is a great way to squander money.

No non-profit--heck, not even the government--intends to squander money. But the more levels, and channels, and streams and flow-charts you add to something, the more money gets diverted to operational costs--the costs of business. Little by little, the stream gets smaller.

How to! Part 5

2009-04-10T19:25:00.001-07:00

First, I remeasured my deck and decided where I was going to place the walls, and made small pencil marks for layout, since I can't use the indelible red chalk on the decking. I also measured how tall the wall would be, and subtracted 4.5 inches for 1 bottom and 2 top plates. You use 2 top plates both for strength and trim, in this case.

Then I came back to my cut station, and cut the bottom plate and the first top plate. There are vicissitudes to layout, and I will only touch upon it here. Truss, stud, joist or rafter layout is usually done in one of 3 patterns:
16 on center
2 foot on center
19.2 or 'diamonds'
Instead of choosing a layout (since I want a nice, even screen pattern), I chose to start from the center, working outwards in three sections on the long walls, and two sections on the short wall. It is very close to a 2 foot layout pattern:

In order to make both plates the same, by the way, you might want to line the plates up, mark your spots with a ^, make your line across both boards with a speed square, and put an X on the side of the line you want to put the stud.

Okay, then I carried all the walls over, and attached the bottoms to the deck with deck screws (easier than pulling nails if there is a mistake.) I also put a screw in the end stud to attach it to the house. I stepped back and took a look:

Aside from the dorky looking house, I noticed a problem. The deck is level, but the house isn't--and neither is the house plumb. And so my screws into the end studs were pulling my fresh walls out of plumb. I checked them with a level, and indeed this was the case. I needed to pull the tops of the walls out about 3/4 inch (with the bottom still tight) to make them plumb. If this was getting sheathed, I would have just nailed the end studs tight and brought the top plate out from the wall--but this is not an option, because I have to create square screen frames. So luckily I still had the second top plate to make.

I pulled the screws out and let the tops loose, and they came right into plumb. Then I measured specially for the second top plates. I made them weave together, so that the walls lap and hold together at the joints. To do this, I made the short wall have a seven-inch longer plate, and the long walls had plates that were short 3.5 inches each. And then I installed them:

There will be a trim discrepancy, but it was the least of all evils. Hopefully I will be able to disguise it before Tina goes: "why is there a gap here?" So then I decided to go a little further and try a ridge beam:

Once again, I measured the height (and I had toyed with the idea of making it lower, since good roofing requires it to be about a foot lower for the ice/water shield, and the flashing, and drainage... but that would have made a really low ceiling--and I thought, what the heck! It's a playhouse. I will do my very best to ensure that no ice-dams form in the winter--I plan on using ice/water shield and flashing, but in a much smaller space. Next, rafters...

How to! Part 4 (Dual Language Edition)

2009-04-06T19:01:00.000-07:00

I'm going to keep this one short, for obvious reasons. First, I decided I needed some crushed stone to go over the black garden fabric, and underneath the deck itself--I want to avoid any growth under there, while providing a little drainage. I also realized that I probably should have filled the whole area with crushed stone, but I'm not made of money.

我买了被击碎的石头。我推挤了石头。

Obviously "tuī jǐ" is not the best choice for the second sentence/action, but finding a better word will have to wait. I also bought more three-inch ACQ compatible deck screws, but as it turns out, still not enough. But I was able to start laying the 5/4 by 6 (or 1x6, if you like).

我买了木头的螺丝。我没有足够。

What I wanted to do was put the PT 1x6s tight, so that when they shrink up, they won't leave too much gap. So I determined how much overhang I wanted on the first board, and then laid out (in pencil, on the joists) where each board would fall. The porch takes ten boards very neatly, with an overhang in the front and back. When you install deck boards, it is important to measure the distance of your screws from the edges of the board, and to keep the screws centered over the joist, so that when you come upon the deck, it looks neat and professional. I recommend the ACQ compatible deck screws with the square head because they don't strip as easily, and they are easy to remove... and because when you're hitting galvanized nails with a hammer (the other method) you inevitably leave marks all over the boards, or bend the nails. And then just try to remove a bent galvanized nail without marring the board!

我紧紧放置了木头。我为螺丝测量了。????

Or, en Espanol?

Ayer, compré alguna piedra machacada. Necesité seis bolsos. Hizo una capa delgada. Corté a algunos tableros de madera. Instalé a los tableros. Medí antes de que pusiera en los tornillos. No utilicé clavos.

And then: Here I am at the start of the decking, with the rocks underneath. I gave the front board an inch overhang.

And here I am at the finish, after I've trimmed all the ends with the skilsaw, and given them a 10-degree bevel.

La Sonnambula

2009-04-02T22:17:00.000-07:00

By Bellini! Okay, in this one, the concept was reworked a bit--from its original locale in the Swiss Alps, to a rehearsal studio for a production of La Sonnambula. The set was quite engaging, especially the tall studio windows, through which you can see New York: raining, sunny, nighttime, or snowing! The soprano, Natalie Dessay (who was the exuberant host of Lucia) was doing some very funny acting in addition to singing, which I gather is her forte. Guess who I also thought stole the show--the Count! (Mr.) Michele Pertusi managed to be sexy, creepy and funny all at the same time. Hoo yeah!

I'm supposed to like Flores, the tenor, I guess, and I did--but I didn't like Elvino, the character. He wasn't very trusting of his true love, eh? And the suitor of the bad-girl innkeeper was faithful all the while! I thought--this is a sort of qualified happy ending. But it did look like the Count got with the mother, which I had foreseen. I'm pretty sure the Count and the mother had a thing going before his self-imposed exile!

The Post gave this a bad review, and reported booing of the director--though I only saw standing ovations, so there! Granted, this staging works great for HD, but probably is difficult to catch in the nosebleeds--but then, so were Salome, and Tosca, when I saw them in the nosebleeds at Moscone, or wherever. And Dessay has an advantage in traditional (non HD) opera, since in the nosebleeds she can pass for 17, but in HD, she looks like an adult. A pretty adult, but still an adult.

I say, rock on Mary Zimmerman! Don't listen to those snobs! I think your direction rocked, considering this is a pretty fluffy, silly lil opera.

I still haven't found a composer who compares with Puccini--Bellini wasn't it. Massenet came close. At home I've heard Gounod and Wagner (Tannhauser, not ring cycle) and liked them, but the music is heavier. Next season they will be doing Turandot (very exciting) and Verdi's Aida among others.

How to! Part 3

2009-04-02T18:57:00.000-07:00

t was a beautiful day today--just the right sort of day for deck framing. I started by getting a general sense of squareness by measuring the placement of the sonotubes and bolts, running a framing square off the existing building, and doing a couple of 3/4/5 triangles off the existing building (using dummy boards). The 3/4/5 triangle (and multiples) are essential for squaring up things in carpentry. You thought you would not use this quaint little geometric formula ever again... but YOU WILL!! My favorite is the 12/16/20.

Once I had an idea of what needed to be done, I constructed my pressure treated posts (made of PT 2x4, with a 1/2 inch hole drilled for the bolt. Because the bolts didn't line up--that would be too much to expect--I constructed the posts so that the edge of both would line up, and create a nailing surface for one of the joists. I was about 1.5 inches off on both sets, which was perfect--all I had to do was attach a third 2x4 to the side. And this is how the deck will be connected to the sonotubes, and it is what makes it rigid.

But before I could make all these connections, I bolted off the posts, and then made myself a 5-4-0 ledger, which I nailed to the existing building. I had to make sure the height was correct, as well as level. I made it 5-4-0 instead of 5-7-0 so that I could lap the rim board over the edges on both ends, and that way you won't see any end grain on the board.

Then came the harder part--putting the first joist in right (connected to the sonotube posts) so that it was level with the ledger, and also square with the ledger. I used my dummy boards to get it square with the ledger, and I had to screw and unscrew it a couple of times before I got it level on both sides. Then I cut a few more joists at 5-4-0, and my two rimboards at 6-6-0. I nailed the rimboards to the ledger and first joist, and then leveled them up on the ends with spare blocks. I was then free to put the end joist in. Then, I was able to re-square the entire deck frame, using diagonals.

Just measure a diagonal from corner to corner, and adjust accordingly.

Then I finished my joists, added some hangers, and got everything secure to the posts, and I decided I was done for today!

These are the tools you need for this bit: drill/screwdriver with multiple bits; circular saw; tape measure; speed square and framing square; galvanized nails and screws (3 or 3.25 inch); hammer; level; and a helper if you can swing it. Oh, and here's one last picture of the Simpson hanger:

How to! Part 2

2009-03-31T17:41:00.000-07:00

So, as it snowed lightly today, I thought I would give the sonotube footings a try. (It was snowing, but the temp was hovering around 40) I cut them about two inches, because I didn't want the lower ones on the slope to stick up too much. If this were a real deck, I would want them to rise about 8 inches or more above the ground-line, but in this case, I have a limited scale (I can't go higher than the roof of the playhouse), and there will be minimal human use. I don't anticipate a drainage problem. I may put pea-gravel all around underneath to help with this. Anyway, I put the tubes back in, checked them for level and plumb, and then mixed the Quickcrete (portland cement, add water).

Then, after mixing 80 pounds (enough for one 22 inch sonotube) with 3/4 gallons of water, I put the concrete in the tube. What you want to do is perform a quick slump test, to see if the 'crete is right. You put some in a bucket, and turn it over like a sandcastle. If it slumps a little, but doesn't lose all shape, it is the right consistency. Here I am in the middle of mixing and pouring:

Then I inserted the threaded rod, which is about 12 inches long with a curved end at the bottom, and the threaded bit at the top, in the center of the filled sonotube. I wanted to leave 4.5 inches above the concrete, so that I could use at least 3 inches of lumber as blocking (two 2x4s), or even three layers of blocking with a countersunk hole. Here I am, measuring the rod:

Then, I repeated this process three more times. The hardest bits were physically carrying and mixing the concrete, and keeping the tubes plumb and level. I also noticed that sometimes I had extra in an 80 pound bag, and sometimes was a couple inches short, which is odd since I cut the tubes exactly the same height. But there may have been some seepage at the edges of the paver, or I just lost some as I was dumping it in. Who knows? Anyway, I got them all in, here they are:

Finally, because I didn't know what the weather would be like tonight, and because it's common practice with slabs, I put plastic over the finished tubes, and weighted the plastic with rocks. It takes 24 hours to cure enough to build on, and it takes about 7 days to cure completely. Next stop: deck framing!

How to! Part 1

2009-03-29T17:38:00.000-07:00

It's good for me to continue to do carpentry. It keeps me grounded. I'm really not the same person on a jobsite as I am in writing. It's like Mad Jack and Siegfried Sassoon: I must cultivate the internal division.

Anyway, I agreed to do a screened-porch for odd neighbor Tina. It's really an addition to her playhouse, which is for her and her two sick pomeranians (don't ask!). So I decided I'd better make footings, since I'm not sure the playhouse is at all well connected to the ground, and I don't want to risk the porch blowing away. So I did the preliminary work today, and took some pictures of it, which I'm going to post and narrate, "This Old House" style. Oh, Tommy, won't you come over to my house? Anyway...

First, here is the site. It is really only about six by six feet, so it clearly can't compete with the 60,000 square foot buildings we used to do--but it's also my first 100% solo project, so I guess I'll not be too hard on me. So here's the site:

Next, I had to dig some holes. For the foundation, I decided on sonotubes filled with concrete. Underneath each sonotube is a flat rock or paver. Since I didn't want to be digging until judgement day (which is only in September for us Jews!) I decided to cut my four-foot tubes into two-foot tubes. I want to leave enough height to put rebar in with a threaded rod at the end, so that I can bolt right into the deck framing. This saves me from having to rent a hammer drill to bolt into the concrete. So here are my preliminary holes, with one sonotube sticking out, as a test:

Then, I wanted to get a sense of how much further I ought to dig each hole, so I put all the tubes in, and tested for level using a 2x4 and my four-foot level on each side, and on the diagonals. Ideally, if there is a difference, the slope should be down and away from the house. I was going for about 1/4 inch difference, if any:

Good work, kid! Very, very close. I then had to widen the holes a bit, to put the pavers in them, and tomorrow I will be putting the sonotubes back in, over the pavers, and mixing the concrete. I'm a little nervous about this part, since I've never done it before. After the concrete is set--then will be the easy part!!

Trip recap in Chinese

2009-03-27T17:37:00.000-07:00

我去南部。
Wǒ qù nánbù.
I went south.

旅行持续了三个小时。
Lǚxíng chíxùle sāngè xiǎoshí.
The trip lasted three hours.

它是乐趣。
Tā shì lèqù.
It was fun.

At the Birches

2009-03-26T17:36:00.000-07:00

Here I am, in Amherst, taking in the great little town here (there is a bookstore on every corner! I saw books I've never seen!). Found Hebrew and Chinese children's blocks in the toy store, and language shower curtains. And in the store next door, "barbie skulls." I bought one as a present!

Oh, and UMass. Riiight. That's why I'm here. I stopped off in Greenfield as I was driving down, and I saw the most enormous, beautiful train trestle, but I had no camera. It looked great and sad there, in the drizzle. There were also some cool storefronts in decay and a few disintegrating motel signs. And it was a good day for picture taking too, alas. Greenfield is a little depressed, but I saw some signs of life on main street there, even so--I mean it was busy, and there were some new and interesting businesses. Amherst, of course, is bustling and so is Northhampton, where Smith is I guess, which explains why--college towns. I think Northhampton is where my mom and I sang "Le Bourgeois," as we meandered down the street, but my memory could be failing too:
"Le bourgeois, all are very dumb,
the older that they get, the dumber they become!
Le bourgeois, what a bunch of pigs,
one of them is bald, and the other two wear wigs!"
(Rod McKuen's translation of Jacques Brel)

Springfield has some nice low-end houses, and also a couple of REALLY SWEET studios, if they last. It is a lot to think about. Meanwhile, I will have to try to find parking on campus tomorrow and then find History. Needless to say, it won't be the same as moving quietly through Wieboldt, through Harper, into Social Sciences, and then hovering around the second floor offices or running your hand against the paneling in 122 (?). But you can't go home again. And in any case, it would not be home any longer. It would be missing a person I love.

"I went there uncertainly, for it was foreign ground and there was a tiny, priggish, warning voice in my ear which [...] told me it was seemly to hold back. But I was in search of love in those days, and I went full of curiosity and the faint, unrecognized apprehension that here, at last, I should find that low door in the wall, which others, I knew, had found before me, which opened on an enclosed and enchanted garden, which was somewhere, not overlooked by any window, in the heart of that grey city." (EW)

Phrase of the day (and no, I'm not over it yet):
我的自行车是太复杂的。
Wǒde zìxíngchē shì tài fùzáde.
My bicycle is too complicated.
(I'm not sure if it really calls for "de" at the end, but I'll risk it.)

Work and play

2009-03-25T17:35:00.000-07:00

Driving down to Amherst tomorrow. Just for a quick lookaround, and maybe to schedule to sit in on a class, though I'm nervous about asking. Also to get a look at the neighborhoods. There are (weirdly) a lot of homes in the low 100s in Holyoke and Springfield, and I don't just mean the crackhouses! Though maybe they are next-door to the crackhouses, thus my exploratory mission.

I promised to build a screen-porch addition to Tina-next-door's playhouse, which is actually a doggie playhouse, which she likes to sit and have her tea in. No, not kidding! The dogs are very sickly, and she tells me they cannot touch the ground, but they now have the vet seal of approval to breathe the outdoor air I guess, so she wanted, you know, pressure treated decking, and screens, and a door, and presumably a roof to match the original playhouse, and if I want to get gingerbready with the trim, that's fine.

It actually is more work than it seems, because I have to dig holes, fill concrete sonotubes for footings, put a bolt in each, and then I can frame the actual building. And then comes the other hard part--the roofing and the screening, which I've never done. And building a door. I told them I could not dig until the ground was softer, but she cut me a check already. Yeesh! I told her to wait!

Important phrase of the day:
我的猫坐我的头。
Wǒde māo zuò wǒde tóu.
My cat sits on my head

I am not crazy to want a one-speed mountain bike...

2009-03-23T17:16:00.000-07:00

...and yet, the people at Old Spokes Home looked at me like I'd got early-onset dementia. Anyway, they tell me there's nothing wrong with my blasted 21 speeds, except that I know I have some gear slippage (even in what is ostensibly first gear), which is not fun when you're trying to pedal standing up, going up a hill.

I got a temporary job with the census. Am I crazy not to apply for the historic preservation job in Alaska this summer? It's just that if I have to move to the Amherst area in August, I won't have any time left at all to enjoy my house, and given the extreme downward spiral of the world in general, perhaps this is the only and last house I will ever own before I die, so there. And all readers and/or non-readers who were invited to come visit me, well, so ends your chance. I think in my case there is a negative correlation in terms of how advanced my degree is, versus how much I get paid and how much respect I happen to receive on the job. So, as far as I can determine, when I finish my PhD, I will be living in a box by the river, "the forgotten [wo]man."

Speaking of PhDs... Finally, the U of C has posted the (long overdue) feature on Guy Alitto, the University's best professor, according to this reliable news source (me). You can read it here. But be sure to watch the video too. You get to hear Ai Kai speaking Chinese, and I especially like his colloquial use of "ai-ya," (哎呀！) in his classic Chicago Bulls story. 我惦您，尤其您的故事。艾恺，请拜访绿色山！

I thought, yesterday, that if I had to prepare a lecture-in-a-box (you know, a 15 to 30 minute presentation for interview purposes), it might do to make it something like "Basic House Framing." I could easily discuss wall framing, layout, the difference between western and balloon frame, subfloor installation, and possibly get into roof pitches and rafter cuts. I thought this might be a good subject that most academics don't know--and then I thought, "boy, I could get myself into trouble if there's a diehard do-it-yourselfer on a faculty." I'm anticipating someone who shuns Advantech as a subfloor (although why you wouldn't be on the Advantech bandwagon I don't know), or has some alternative terminology for things (like in Florida they call a reciprocating saw (Sawzall) a "Zawsall."

Focus group

2009-03-11T16:58:00.000-07:00

I attended a focus group for four hours the other night; it paid $100. And I have to say, I got more out of it than just the cash. For the last few months, I've been reading articles submitted to PHN--reading them for grammatical and APA errors, mostly, but also for content. And in them, there is a lot of analysis of focus group interviews. The focus group has been used mostly for qualitative research, but also for clinical concepts and other types of papers. And I was beginning to think no one knew how to ask meaningful questions, and eke out answers that went beyond the bland or general.

And then I signed up for this focus group. Now, this was for the purposes of a courtroom case (criminal) which will be held in VT in the next year, I presume. So I won't say much about the case, but... The focus group was led by an out-of-state attorney consultant named Jim Lees, who impressed me very much. At first, second and third glance, he appears genial and disarming. Yet he is a brilliant questioner.

And I suspect that while this has something to do with his West Virginia home, I also think this is a great attribute for a trial lawyer. To be unassuming, non-committal, even friendly--until it is time for the counter-attack. He has a flair for asking incisive questions, remembering names and keeping the discussion flowing, non-stop. I can see why he does this job. Anyway, it all began with some introduction to the focus group (generally--what is a focus group, no specifics) some paperwork about our background and a confidentiality agreement (which I have no intention of breaking).

We introduced ourselves, and he asked questions of each of us, with humor, and then he asked about the local economy. He would ask specific people, remembering details about their lives from the introductions (there were 12 of us). Then, he asked us about health care. I had guessed that the case in question would be a civil case, based on some of the questions about money, compensation and frivolous lawsuits. But as we got deeper into the health care discussion, I began to see that it was no civil case.

He asked things like, "what do you expect from a doctor/practitioner?" "What could be improved upon?" "Do you (specific person) have a problem with examination by a female doctor?" and so on, and then, "what would you define as the hip?" "what would be an appropriate examination of the hip?" "how would you define consent?" "is it fair to file a complaint a day after something happens, even if you didn't speak up at the event?" and more! And we had not yet heard anything about the case, but I was beginning to get a clearer idea. He used a combination of direct questioning, (us) writing things down and then reading them, and us writing and then folding the paper and giving it to him. He made sure to get around the room, quickly and efficiently; no one was allowed to dominate discussion, and quiet people were asked specific questions.

We took a break (and I should mention that this was not taped, but there were three people taking notes in the room--all in all a very expensive focus group: 36 total participants ($3600) plus hiring the note-takers ($$) and Jim Lees' fees for the ultimate report. This creates the problem of fairness, since I'm sure a poor defendant could not have afforded this) and when we came back, the case was introduced.

We heard the details of the case--slowly (it has not been widely publicized, probably because VT is very small) because as he was talking about the case, he asked us questions about our perceptions and prior knowledge: how did we understand this specialty? Did any of the facts in the biography raise questions, and why? What did we perceive happened based on the charges, and what did we want to know?

He then played a tape (a wiretap), which was awkward to listen to, and I didn't want to meet anyone's eyes, I think, and instead--so as to focus only on the tape, and not on any reactions--I doodled on my paper, looking down. Then he asked us whether we felt the recording was damaging, and why. We talked about the tape, and the charges, and we were free to ask questions--and there were many, because there were a fair amount of details to be discussed. Lees answered them to the best of his ability, and then we had to make a judgement on the charges based on what we had heard. I have no idea what the end results were, since they were private, but I imagine they were mixed. Or so I would think--I felt like I might have been an outlier in the group, but perhaps not. Everyone, regardless of education level, took this very seriously and were earnest and thoughtful in their responses.

My guess is, though he could not say, the report was commissioned for the defense, and not for the state, though I could be wrong. I will be very interested to see how the case is resolved. At any rate, THAT is a focus group.

We were discussing Graham Greene...

2009-03-01T12:08:00.000-08:00

Oil painting, unvarnished.

Lucia di Lammermoor

2009-02-22T15:22:00.000-08:00

First, Lucia. So this was pretty well attended, even at the encore performance. I swung in pretty late and had to sit closer than I like, though I picked the opposite side from the man who talks about knowing the bass-player in the orchestra. I was kind of hoping some people would talk to me, but no. There were some student-types in the audience, too. At intermission, I did step into a conversation about "Milk;" the folks didn't know who he was, or what the film was about, so I enlightened them, and also told them there was an opera, "Harvey Milk." But how could they have missed the movie buzz?

Okay, the host was pretty funny--can't remember her name, but she was last year's Lucia, and she had a quirky and over the top way of introducing the acts. She got a lot of laughs. Since this production was long (over long, maybe) we got interviews of all the stars, and the director, and the stage manager, and the electrician (which I liked--yay, trades!). And all through the intermissions, we got thrilling and sometimes funny views of the set activity backstage. One poor fellow thought he was cranking away at one rolling piece, only to find he wasn't hooked up. "Oh, shit!"

They have the same moor-set from last year, which is so big they have to wheel it outside onto the avenue after the first act, and drive it away. No room backstage. Cast is dressed, I'd say, in turn of the century costume. I thought the look of the set and costumes was good. I wasn't as pleased with Donizetti's music--the overture I liked, but I didn't much care for the arias.

What was interesting was that the tenor who was supposed to sing Edgardo was sick, so we had the third tenor in this role, this season--coming straight form Eugene Onegin. He did a fine job. The fellow who sung Enrico was appropriately slimy. Anna Netrebko did a good job of going mad--and you know, all along I was thinking--she looks like someone I know. And then I remembered, she looks like Gabe, our carpenter from VT Works for Women. Not that Gabe went mad on site--although I wouldn't have blamed her if she did.

There were two intermissions (at 20 minutes a piece) plus all the interviews, and the Placido Domingo retrospective, and "The Audition" trailer, so we didn't get out until 11pm. At the concession counter, the pimply teenager said, dully, "The opera's having another intermission. We'll close the counter when it's over." They must tell the actual Met-goers that the HD performances are longer. So, I'll say this wasn't my favorite opera, but it was one of the first my mom saw, years ago, at a public school music class outing in junior high. She was living in White Plains or Mt. Vernon, and I guess the class went down to the (old) Met a couple times. Of course, we have supertitles now, which is nice, since I haven't read the librettos.

And then, in an unrelated thought-stream, I just got done with my third batch of manuscripts. It was a lot to wade through, this time, since the writing was technically better, but the actual formulation of the studies (or practice concepts, or policy papers) was less than great. The last one I read, after I was done, I felt like the authors had woven a smokescreen of jargon having to do with public health paradigms all around a basically so-so qualitative study of a group of PH nurses. I felt like I was scratching my way through shredded wheat. And it wasn't a bad idea... it just wasn't executed as well as it should have been. Lessons

Orfeo ed Euridice

2009-02-22T14:48:00.000-08:00

It's like I have season tickets! And my box is behind a guy who won't shut up about knowing the bass player in the orchestra. So I've never seen an opera like this. It was like an operallet. There was a lot of dancing, and a huge amount of choral music, and a cast of about 100, I'd say. I think there was a clavier in the pit.

But let me start from the beginning. So this is an early opera by Gluck, in Italiano. The lead role, Orfeo, was written for a castrato, but is now sung by a mezzo-soprano in a "trousers role." The whole thing is one act--no intermission. So it begins at the funeral of Euridice, with poor old Orfeo singing the blues. The nymphs and shepherds dance their farewell, but Orfeo tells them to get lost. Everyone is wearing blue-gray, except Orfeo, wearing black, and the chorus (up above in a sort of fire-escape type thing... well, look at the pictures from the Met). Did I mention that everyone is wearing Isaac Mizrahi? Also, did I mention that Jimi Hendrix is in the chorus?

So, Amor comes down from the skies in a pink polo shirt and chinos, and tells Orfeo what he can do to get Euridice back. Very puckish. So Orfeo grabs his guitar and goes. The ghosts (wearing gray, and then stunning white) come and dance, and Orfeo has to beg to get through. He calls on their mercy, since they were lovers once, and at this point, the dancers begin to pair off. Male/female, male/male, female/female. Very avant garde decision--I liked it. Meanwhile, the chorus (which is everyone who has ever died, in the underworld, including Eleanor Roosevelt and Mark Twain and Truman Capote and Crazy Horse and Frederick Douglass) sings. Finally, they relent and Orfeo grabs Euridice and goes--duh, of course, without looking at her.

So they travel through the underworld, which is a glistening, sparkling black oily mountain. I think the set designer might have balled up gobs of electrical tape and then doused it in roof pitch. But Euridice spoils it all, by singing about how cruel he is, not to even look at her, and oh, the passion must have died, oh my, oh dear. Finally, after a lot handwringing, Orfeo looks at her, and of course, she dies and is carried back to the underworld. Well, I knew this was a tragedy, right?

Wrong!!! Just as Orfeo is about to shuffle off this mortal coil, Amor appears again. S/he says: "No, don't kill yourself! You've proved your love!" And Orfeo is reunited with Euridice, and they return to earth, where the nymphs and shepherds are dancing in bright, bright colors--m/f, m/m, and f/f as before--and Orfeo and Euridice kiss, and then there's more dancing and singing! Hoorah!

I liked this opera, even though the music was a little early-classical for my tastes (I'm more of a Romantic period type) and some of the songs or dances seem over-long, when there's no intermission. But I think the director and designers did a great job of making this opera into a visually compelling and relevant (even modern) production, and the woman who sang Orfeo (Stephanie Blythe) was, of course, quite good. I am a little puzzled as to why Gluck changed the story--but I was, after all, touched by the end.