So, flying today. Have apparently misplaced my paper ticket. Yes, that’s right. There are still people who ISSUE paper tickets. Rang United, who it was all booked with. Their response? “We have no record of you.” They said—you’ve lost your ticket? Well you’ll have to buy a new one and fill out an application. Then if there are no problems we’ll reimburse you. Seriously? So I rang Lufthansa, and they were great. Confirmed that, yes, as far as airlines are concerned I exist. Also, that with a handy six digit reference code I could go to a ticket counter and they would sort me out. And no mention of “oh, and buy your ticket all over again.” I hope I never have reason to call United again.

*

Rant over, I can’t believe I lost the ticket. It was all together, and I have the folder it was in. I remember the ticket, and am sure that when I pulled it out to give my ticket number to my travel agent to confirm my final flights that I would have put it back in the folder. Apparently not. Demonstrating once more that I apparently will be the sort of person who ends up keeping her tax information in the fruit bowl. Though I suppose if it’s all in the same fruit bowl that won’t be too much of a problem.

*

I anticipate a week of reading—being in places where I don’t know the language always leads to deep reading—and, hopefully, a little writing. Though I find writing hard during the period I am actually on the hoof. Notebook writing.

*

Reading Sontag’s diaries. Reading other bits. Books in the bag for over the break? Desnos. Darwish. Carson (of course). Perhaps I should add John Clare. A few novels. Am going to read Kafka’s diaries when I get home—they’re calling to me.

End of semester—exhaustion. Finished my final paper, and it wasn’t what it should be. But then, I always think those final papers at the point I hand them in are really a starting point, and not an end point. So, perhaps I have the start of something.

*

I’ve been sad since my mother sent me the news that Dorothy Porter is gone—too soon. I have a number of friends who knew her much better than I, but she is someone that I admired, and wanted more of.

*

Leave tomorrow for Frankfurt, then Bulgaria. I guess there’ll be a lot of sleep on the place.

*

Anticipating lying on Australian ground, trying to figure out what Anne Carson is doing with error, and exactly makes it different from how other poets might choose error.

*

Packing, now. Triage: must take, can take, don’t need to take.

The past weeks and the next few days are incredibly busy—such that I haven’t really had a chance to write. (Or update the Independence Day Project… a lapse I am ashamed of, though the project will be finished, when I am able to finish it.)

My prospectus is done, and now it’s just a matter of finishing the final paper. Oh wait—is it really just a matter of that? Okay, perhaps a little more complicated.

I leave the US on Thursday—flying first to Frankfurt overnight, where I’ll have about half a day before I fly onward to Bulgaria. I’m visiting the lovely Carolyn Emigh! (I’m hoping, too, that there will be time for a side trip to Macedonia, to visit the poet Nikola Madzirov. It’s not certain that that’s going to happen.) Then I’ll be dashing home, via a night in Singapore, with an overnight in Frankfurt… and then… home.

So I have a few days to finish this paper—which is due the day I leave anyway. And it will be done. Having written and made notes for the full length of the paper, I now have a thesis. One which I can make work. So. That’s nice.

I am also applying to MFA programs… which I am hoping (determined…) to have finished before I leave as well. Madness.

Then there’s that whole packing/making sure I know where my stuff is/paying bills list of things to do.

Oh, and I spent the weekend getting stuff in order my advisor’s study (since I’m also the research assistant.) Making a list of where everything is. How to contact me in an emergency. Etc.

So. That’s the status report.

The past weeks have, again, accelerated. I know that I should have written all about election day, and the day after—but I didn’t. It’s been a busy time.

Belatedly, though, I will note that on election day I:

- first tutored at Duke Ellington (no students, but I got the crossword done…)
- had coffee at Baked and Wired, chatting with the Baked Girls. (Nathan falls into this category too… I don’t think I’ve told him that yet.)
- then C picked me up to go drive around North Virginia for a while. The idea? To find some polling places for him to photograph, and me to make whatever notes I felt like making. The method? Cross a bridge from DC to Rosslyn and get lost. The theory? After getting lost, something interesting will happen. The outcome? Didn’t find the polling places, but instead found an “Oriental Supermarket” that, among other things, sold Milo. So I’ve had a week of excellent chocolate milk… and now the Milo is all gone.
- Back to C’s place before heading toward Meg’s for the special election edition meeting of the Baked and Wired Knitting Society… except then Meg had to cancel at the last minute.
- Impromptu invitation (after assurances that I would not be intruding) to the house of one of C’s friends. Me, glued to CNN and MSNBC electoral maps for 4 hours.
- Obama! Obama!
- Joining the spontaneous crowd gathered outside the White House between midnight and 2.30am. Wow.

I slept in the next morning. You’re shocked.

Since then, there’s been more stuff to get done. I presented papers at two conferences last weekend. I feel like I am living in the aftermath of Friday, when I flew to New Hampshire and back on the same day, in order to present a paper at the Milton conference at the lovely St Anselm’s College. The day itself was a little hellish—I got up at 3am to get the shuttle to BWI airport and didn’t get back home until midnight. Still, I met some lovely people, including a Benedictine monk who was knitting a brightly coloured hat.

Oh, and knitting has been treating me very nicely. Such fun! Such madness! Let’s have a caucus race!

This week has been a bit of a marathon. I’m still going to work for another hour or so tonight… of that’s the plan. If sleep takes over, I won’t object…

As a form of training…it is important that the poet develop a strong bond with life, to be able to observe and able to choose his subject matter. …Afterwards, he can abstract things by abstracting coincidences, and symbolize them. This time of observation (for a poet) is an elementary process akin to learning reading and writing.

—Saadi Youssef

My wordle above comes care of wordle...

I’ve been doing a lot of alphabetisation, organising Carolyn’s university and home offices. And talking about definitions of “poetics,” which, as she points out, is being used in rather a vague manner. I was inspired after discussing this over lunch (there are some wonderful perks in helping organise the library…) to go home and check the OED on poetics and poesis…

The OED lists the noun uses of “poetic” (no entry for “poetics,” even though that is almost exclusively how I hear it used here…) as follows:

B. n.
1. In sing. and pl.
a. The aspect of literary criticism that deals with poetry; the branch of knowledge that deals with the techniques of poetry. Also: a treatise on poetic art, spec. that written by Aristotle.
1656 T. STANLEY Hist. Philos. II. VI. 31 Philologick... Poeticks. 1702 Perfidious P 134, I believe you are the only Man that ever read Aristotle, that had the shadow of a Reason against any thing he has said in his Poeticks. 1776 C. BURNEY Gen. Hist. Music I. Pref. p. viii, It is imagined that Plutarch took it either from his [sc. Aristotle's] Treatise on Music, or the second book of his Poetics. 1807 BYRON Let. 30 June (1973) I. 123 Even the hero of my Cornelian (who is now sitting vis-a-vis, reading a volume of my poetics) passed me in Trinity walks. 1834 Penny Cycl. II. 335/2Aristotle's genuine extant works may be divided into three classes: 1. Those relating to the philosophy of the mind... To this head may be referred..his Rhetoric and Poetic: the last of which works is imperfect. 1879 M. PATTISON Milton xiii. 200 The principle of the Aristotelean Poetic. 1917 T. S. ELIOT Prufrock 38 With your air indifferent and imperious At a stroke our mad poetics to confute. 1990 Bull. Hispanic Stud. 67 331 In the past few years, the application of narratological and semiotic approaches has proved to be crucial for the development of a poetics of the romancero.
b. The creative principles informing any literary, social or cultural construction, or the theoretical study of these; a theory of form.
1927 Contemp. Rev. July 59 M. Valéry's poetics have been accused of hermetism and of preciousness. 1973 Word 1970 26 66 Jakobson avoids the term stylistics, preferring instead poetics. 1976 Times Lit. Suppl. 2 Jan. 11/2 To subscribe to this poetic was to doubt the validity of art and the veracity of dreams. 1977 A. SHERIDAN tr. J. Lacan Écritsiii. 102 This notion must be approached through its resonances in what I shall call the poetics of the Freudian corpus.1990 Lit. & Ling. Computing 5 197/1 Now more than ever poetics aspires to integrate itself within the evolving larger field of the human sciences.
2. A writer of poetry, a poet. Obs. rare.
1687 J. PARRY To Cleveland in J. Cleveland Wks. 286 Where all Poeticks else may truckle under. 1687 J. PARRY Elegy on Cleveland in J. Cleveland Wks. 285 'Tis your Crime T'upbraid the State-Poeticks of this time.
3. In pl. Poetic composition; the writing of poems. Obs. rare.
1851 T. CARLYLE Life J. Sterling II. x. 285 Our valiant friend..was not to be repulsed from his Poetics either by the world's coldness or by mine.

Most people seem to have abandoned the original, Aristotelian use of the word. So 1b is the winner when it comes to the way the word is bandied around.

But then! Ah yes, but the… there is also poesis. It’s entry is as follows:

1. A poem; poems collectively, poetry, verse; poesy. Now rare.
1565 J. HALL Courte of Vertu (title) A poesis in forme of a uisyon. 1567 T. DRANT tr. Horace Arte of Poetrie sig. Aiiiv,Not lore enough in Poesis, let them be sweetlye fynde, And let them leade to where them liste the hearers plyante mynde. 1617 J. DAVIES Wits Bedlam sig. H3v, Poesie be..A speaking Picture..Then must a Picture needs be made, by this, A silent Poesis, subiect to the Eye. 1742 W. CLARKE & W. BOWYER tr. J. Trapp Lect. Poetry 22 We generally use the Words Poesis and Poetica, Poesy and Poetry, indiscriminately. 1894 Amer. Jrnl. Philol. 15 16 Before Lucilius's time a single play (poema) had been called satura, he gave this designation to his thirty books (poesis). 1899 J. E. SPINGARN Hist. Lit. Crit. 27 Poetica is the art of composing poetry, poesis, the poetry composed according to this art.1993 Faquery 1: who writes R.A.P.? in rec.arts.poems (Usenet newsgroup) 16 Apr., Discussions about the art of poetry and the science of poesis, including issues about use of language, poetical forms, and the work of various poets.

2. The process of making; production, creation; creativity, culture (cf. POIESIS n.).
1903 L. F. WARD Pure Sociol. II. v. 88 Poesis is a form of creative synthesis. 1939 S. CHUGERMAN Lester S. Ward 271Poesis is the creative, synthetic process of the intellect applied to all the sciences and practical arts. 1963 F. C. CREWSPooh Perplex (1979) 91 It is clear that the object of study here..falls essentially into the category of art, or broadly speaking, poesis. 1989 Requiem 9 I. 35 The first poem, the Original original one..was God's literal poesis of the world.2003 Chicago Rev. (Nexis) 49 31 Reading as poesisa materially based making of the text into something of use, positioning it phrase by phrase..in complex..relation to one's projects.

This second meaning seems to me to have been lumped into “poetics” these days. Yes? No? And I’m interesting that all the uses of poesis in this second sense fall after the start of the 20th century.

Weeks have rushed by of late. I don’t think I can honestly say I’ve been feeling very lazy in the last fortnight—in reality I’ve basically been run off my feet. It’s been good though. I feel a little electric: every time I sit down to the thing that needs my attention right now I feel like the attention is right there.

What’s been keeping me so busy? Writing Center and running my workshops, which have started to gain attendance. It’s funny—some days I feel really exhausted by the very idea of tutoring, but the moment my students arrive I’m right there in the work. I wish I could remember this ahead of time. I feel like I’m a grump. I guess it’s partly being so protective of my own time, which is divided between so many things. I’m tutoring at Duke Ellington, a performing arts high school a few blocks from Georgetown, two days a week—though there have been weeks when I’ve only made it to one of my days. (This week for instance: I really needed the whole of Tuesday to get things done…) But students are starting to come in, and I love talking to these students about writing—it’s really getting into fundamentals, and instilling ideas about writing as a process at the outset. It also gives me a chance to talk to them about the contexts for writing, so they know that there are different conventions for different types of writing, and they can use those conventions, and play with them, as long as they’re aware of them. I’ve also been working intensively with one particular student, and spent an hour going through a single paper he had already handed in, looking at where the writing was really strong, and where he could take it further. Every time I look at these pieces of writing at this level I feel like I’m learning about my own writing. When I grade papers, I limit myself to the amount of time I spend on individual papers, and don’t comment on every possible aspect, but instead what I think are the next steps the particular writer can master to improve, so writing improves incrementally. Perhaps that’s ingrained from my flute-playing days: I’ve read bits and pieces of gaining expertise in writing, with comparisons to the type of training a musician undergoes, and I know that it’s counterproductive to try and work on everything at once.

Of course, I don’t get around to implementing every suggestion I make to students in my own (critical) writing. But slowly comes to matter less—each paper I write there’s something that is becoming more ingrained, and my conscious attention can shift to a different factor. It generally takes 10 years—or longer—to gain mastery. (This is, in fact, a problem for wind players and singers. To reach maturity as a musician, you really do need that ten years. String players and pianists start at a very early age, but you can’t really start serious lessons on wind instruments until later, because they are physically demanding in different ways—the breath required. Wind players will often graduate from a music degree only just beginning to reach a level of expertise—or still not quite there—while string players are at a different level. This interests me a lot.) Oh, the point? I feel like I’ve really been focusing on what it takes to write a critical paper for no longer than 5 years—and I’m not sure I’ve been focussing truly for that long. I mean, I know I started at university over ten years ago (oh—realising that is… huge) but I was at sea when I started, and the feedback I got didn’t really help me figure out how to improve. I figured some things out for myself—but at the same time I’ve been reformulating my writing since I’ve been in America.

So, tutoring has been keeping me busy. Thinking about writing has been keeping me busy. Wordsworth and Coleridge have been keeping me busy—sadly it’s started to turn cold, and, today, wet, which means soon I’ll be giving up my canal-side position. I wonder where my new reading spot will be?

I feel like my thesis has been a little on the backburner in the past fortnight. I managed to sit down on Thursday morning—there were no clients in the writing center—and get some writing done towards my thesis. I want to finish the analysis of the poem I’m looking at soon—today? I can dream… maybe it will become a reality. I also have a paper to write for Monday: I have to choose three lines of a poem and write an analysis of them, between 600 and 1000 words. And that will happen today. Writing about poems takes time, but it is also joyful. I feel like reading Helen Vendler’s book Poets Thinking has helped me think about a particular way to write on poems. I learned a few things about writing from her. Good stuff!

I’ve also started to be a research/general assistant with the other hours I’m allowed to be employed by Georgetown University. This has been great—at present I’m organising a research library. It’s actually a really good workout—running up and down a stepladder with piles of books, especially when I have to reach up to the top shelf. The day after my first shelving marathon my lats were sore… it was so nice! And a good excuse to settle into a lavender flavoured bath with a copy of Vogue.

As if all that weren’t enough, there’ve been poets in town. Ilya Kaminsky came to Carolyn’s class on Wednesday, and I got to chat with him before and after class. Marvellous! He is a joyful poet, and a joyful presence. He gave me some recommendations—I love getting recommendations!—and quizzed me on who to read from Australia. (I threw in a few New Zealanders for good measure…)

And then! And then! Thursday night Adam Zagajewski read at Georgetown. Now, some people may remember the day, several years ago, that I pulled Tremor out of the Melbourne University and started reading it. The result? Well, I accosted more than one person and made them listen to or read certain poems. I went home and wrote certain poems, including “Testimony.” Then when I found books of his essays, and Without End in bookshops I immediately bought them. The days I walked into Readings and swore to myself that I just couldn’t buy any books today… that I couldn’t afford it. But whenever I found Zagajewski’s work I was scared I wouldn’t see it in Australia again. Though I suspect it’s getting to be more and more available. So—meeting him. Hearing him speak. Listening to him read. And talking to him about music—about Shostakovich and about Messiaen. About Chopin and about Mahler. About Lutosławski and about Pärt. It made me crave music!

If you haven’t read his work, please, please do. Here are a few quotes from his talk at the Lannan reading on Thursday night:


"A dissenter is someone who knows the answer—and more and more I felt that to write poetry was to know nothing."


"I think poetry is an instrument that measures the world. An instrument is a scale—but there is no knowledge built into the instrument."


"I think we survive as poets thanks to a system of illusions. We do something, and we think we do something else. And my illusion is a search for radiance."


"The border between poetry of dissent and questioning poetry is not very thick, and I think there is probably always something dissenting about poetry.

"Poetry by definition is a dissent—because it is read by few, written by few, with high standards. It’s elitist, but elitist in the least exclusive sense, in that it doesn’t cost any money. It’s a very democratic elite."

Apparently the email about the writing workshops I’m holding for Liberal Studies students at Georgetown went out yesterday—this morning I had five people register for workshops. Wonderful! So that’s great. It’s all about people taking advantage of these opportunities, and it will give me a little bit more teaching experience.

In the mean time I’ve been scribbling toward this response to “The Idiot Boy”—I feel very sluggish in my writing at the moment. Damn it! Or perhaps its just that I’ve only been blog-writing and poem-writing for so long that I’m out of practice when it comes to sharp analysis, rather than “hey, I’m thinking this” or “here-is-a-hopefully-startling/apt-metaphor” writing. Hey, I’m a grad student again!

That said, I should now turn my attention to “The Idiot Boy.” At least I’ve got my Baked & Wired coffee to get… well… wired. (Doesn’t this look enticing? Jacob Grier is responsible for this photo.)

As usual I’m feeling insanely busy. I also think I’m probably not managing my time as well as I could be—should be. But I got through some tutoring, some reading, some scribbling of notes today. Got through some knitting. Thought about of Anne Carson’s work. Started to think about Wordsworth again, after two days off—and at the moment, taking two days off from Wordsworth feels almost like a crime.

But I did enlighten the ducks of the C & O Canal last weekend when I saw canal-side and read the whole of Lyrical Ballads aloud to them. (I’m glad I have a segment of the canal near me that I really don’t have to share with anyone but the occasional dog and its owner, and the ducks.)

Tutoring at the Writing Center has been really busy—today was the first shift where I’ve had a breather. Read about Hegel for a while after I saw my client. While the Writing Center was quiet, I had two students come in to see me while I was tutoring (as a volunteer) at Duke Ellington this morning—it’s nice that those students are starting to take advantage of the tutoring service.

I have to write a short paper on a poem from Lyrical Ballads in the next few days—I want to get a draft of the thing done tomorrow morning, so that I can go through my ideas of the next few days. I’m mostly likely going to write on “The Idiot Boy”—there are things that interest me in it, though also things that don’t work for me. I’m giving a presentation in class next week on “Tintern Abbey” too.

Last week I was quite social—in between doing an intense amount of reading I went to see the Shakespeare Theatre Company production of Romeo and Juliet with my friend C, and two of his friends. Thursday I went to a great launch at the Library of Congress—short and sweet speeches, a few good poems, and a couple that were wonderful. Discovered the work of Sinead Morrisey. I can't wait to read more. Friday I decided not to go dancing at the last minute, and instead stayed in. But then it was back out on Saturday night—after reading all day I ended up at a friend-of-a-friend’s party. Dancing, handstands, talking with fabulous people and general fun ensued.

And I’ve been thinking and thinking that soon I will get to writing some poems. It hasn’t happened yet, but I have high hopes. I have ideas—both reading Wordsworth and Coleridge, and all the poets for Carolyn’s class on Poetry of Witness, and any extra poetry I happen to be able to stuff into my days.

It’s been so long since I wrote a response paper that I’m feeling really nervous! I know I’ve done a lot of other writing, but my ideas seem so chaotic at the moment. also went through some days of panicking about my thesis last week—and then dreamed that Michael Ondaatje emailed me some ideas for it. Odd. I guess I really am going insane: as happens to grad students.

I feel like I’m juggling blogs—I started to get into my research blog… which is fun. It’s thinking out loud (how’s that different from here, you ask?) about the boring parts of my study that only very select nerds are interested in… so select that hardly anyone in the English department has looked at it! But I made it pretty.

And after a week or so without independence days to worry about, there’s a sudden barrage of them coming up.

Tonight I’m meant to be starting a series of workshops for the Liberal Studies students. I’m looking forward to them—but I don’t know if I got the word out soon enough for tonight’s workshop, so I don’t know if I should expect anyone to come. Oh dear. It’s supposed to be on “the conventions of academic writing”—to which I should could add (in the American context), since it’s so different for the British. Talk about re-learning. Old dog. New tricks. That’s me. Except, I’m not that old. 29 is the new black.

What’s not the new black? Well, at this stage, the bail out.

Oh my. As further evidence that a combination of work and world history have taken over my life, the Independence Day Project is about to overtake poor miss kate, underground or otherwise, in its number of postings.

I realise that there are a lot of countries and territories in the world, and September has been a busily Independent month… And July was just insane. I’ve just been realising how, being so busy suddenly (aftermath of illness?)

They’re trying to bring back a Galapagos tortoise from the dead. I don’t know how I feel about this—scientists thinks they can “tap into” this particular extinct Galapagos tortoise’s DNA from descendents, and recreate the original. Have these people read Jurassic Park? Okay, I do find it really interesting—and in truth I love turtles and tortoises, especially giant ones… But this makes me feel a little uneasy.

The election is starting to get to me. Sarah Palin is getting to me. (Her smugness in that interview with Charlie Gibson: Gibson, basically respectful; Palin, “oh, yes, Charlie; oh, no, Charlie; In what respect, Charlie?”—I know it’s his name, but I found this so, so forced.) And where is Biden? I’m hoping to go out to see a viewing of the first debate—and I spoke with a friend today about finding some bar full of politicos on 4 November to sit and watch the results coming in.

Wow. I’m already planning for 4 November.

Oh. 15 percent of meals eaten today in America are eaten in cars. I’m glad I don’t have a car.

My second birthday in DC. I have, of course, talked to my mum. And, since it’s my birthday (as well as Independence Day for Mali and Bulgaria), I’m trying to ignore the whole economic crisis thing going on. I mean, I know in some quarters people were feeling ye olde “cautious optimism” on Friday, but I’m just waiting for the next thing to fall apart. And I’ve been worried about global warming for 22 years. Wait, it’s my birthday. That’s a day off worry, right?

I read some Coleridge this morning that I really loved. It was exciting, as I thought I was in the Wordsworth and Coleridge class all for WW’s sake. No, it turns out I can be a sucker for Coleridge, and perhaps I will be.

I’ve just started a research blog for my thesis project. This means that I have basically become the queen of blogs in the English department. I don’t think that’s a cool thing—just a fact. Anyway, since it’s messy, it’s pretty much a closed blog. But if you’re interested I can register you to read it. Send your details on a piece of batter pudding… Oh wait, this isn’t The Goon Show (damn it!). Email me.

And I read a bunch of Nelly Sachs on the weekend. Wow. Also, a bunch of Brecht’s poetry. Obviously in translation as my super high school German skills from year 8 and 9 don’t reach to reading… well, anything—beyond “Hi, my name’s [insert name here] and I’m from Australia.” I can also say that I study geography, even though I don’t. It’s sort of like how I can say in Auslan (that’s Australian sign language for those not in the know… and yes, Australian sign is different from American) “I have a duck.” Life skills.

So, I’m turning 29. What’s happening? Well, there’s been some nice news on the poetry front. My book will come out sometime next year, I’ll have a piece in Best Australian Poems and there’s another anthology that wants me to send some work. I also had an odd dream about a journal I could submit poetry to. I wonder if it exists. Maybe I could dream it into existence, just like, apparently, people in ancient Greece could go to a certain temple to dream their own cures.

I have to get into Serious Attention to School mode. With a side serve of Serious Attention to Writing. Any day now. Life keeps being unexpectedly busy.

I feel like it’s been quite a week, but I’m not sure if that’s true. I’ve been doing quite a lot of stuff—but I think I’ve also had quite a bit of down time. Knitting, admiring Luke Perry, sitting on the floor… But today I did some proper reading, and started to make lists in my head about the sorts of things I need to get done. And whoa! Do I need to get things done.

Yesterday, though, I had a bit of a time out from all the university stuff. My friend Marie works for a senator, and she took me on a tour of the Capitol. Now for some reason I thought it would be a drama for me even to get in, but no—no passports, fingerprints, background check… Just the normal walk through a metal detector while we scan your bag.

The tour was pretty interesting—especially since we cut through lots of little corridors and underground passages and things. I’m more interested in the unglamorous shortcuts, I guess. I got all sorts of things—and asked some probably strange questions. I wondered how many of the statues in the building featured people in Confederate uniforms (thanks to my father and our recent civil war tours…) and when Marie pointed out a chandelier and told me that before it was at the Capitol it had been in a church and a theatre, I found myself wondering what denomination the church was—I mean, it’s in a pretty central room (if I remember rightly, next to THE central room) so I think it’s significant. Marie didn’t know, but her husband thinks it’s an ex-Methodist chandelier that has pride of place.

Also, when I saw the place where presidents lie in state, there was a list next to it of the presidents who had lain in that very place. Alongside the presidents, there were unknown soldiers: obviously one from World War I at the end of the war, similarly one from Vietnam at the end of that war. But also—1958, Unknown Soldier World War II and Korean War. This puzzled me—if it was one soldier, well—he was unknown, so how could you know he was in two conflicts? If it was two soldiers, what state was the World War II soldier in in 1958? And why would you wait until 1958 to decide to give an WWII Unknown Soldier lying in state status?

I also so the room of the first supreme court. It kind of gave me chills. And the room that is featured in Mr Smith Goes to Washington.

When I noticed the number of Barack Obama’s senate office, I walked by it. Marie told me one of her friends had gone in and talked to them—they gave her a signed photograph. Now I didn’t go into that office, but the idea was rolling around my head. We “cruised” a couple of other senate offices (and I saw what had been JFK’s office) and then I decided to be brave—or just get over how daggy it was—and get a couple of signed senator photographs. I started with Ted Kennedy, and since that went smoothly, I got John Kerry to. Then I thought, “hey! I could get a Democratic Convention set!” I stopped in at Hillary Clinton’s office, but they’d run out. They said I could go to the website, put in the details and they’d send it to me—but I guess I have a short attention span. Now I’m kind of over the idea. Still, I’m pretty pleased with my Kennedy-Kerry duo.

Oh, and can I just say that Sarah Palin makes me angry? So, so angry.

Spoke to my mum this evening—wonderful! I love speaking to my mum. I’m a mama’s girl.

I’m still on my alarming 90210 kick. So I’ll just say Donna Martin Graduates!

Squash it.

My first experience of a tropical storm today… though I suppose I didn’t experience it much. It was warm and a little humid, and I popped on my yellow gumboots (or, as they call them here, galoshes) and went to Baked and Wired. I intended to do a lot of work there, but instead found myself chatting to the crew for—well, I’m ashamed of how long I chatted to the crew. Long enough to get given a small cup of mocha free after my two coffees were long gone…

But I started drawing ideas about my thesis on the big piece of brown paper I’ve stuck on my wall to map my thoughts. I did some knitting. I looked at photographs taken during the Russian invasion of Prague in 1968. I jumped in a couple of puddles.

Which is to say, I’ve had a relaxing, yet not entirely unproductive, day. And I’m still going. About to read a little poetry (Coleridge… and potentially Wordsworth if I get to both) and maybe write a letter (I’m very behind on my correspondence. I blame Luke Perry.) I’m sure there are social things that I could and should be out doing, but after the last couple of weeks it’s honestly such a pleasure to hole up at home on a Saturday night. Knitting, listening to podcasts, eating porridge or somesuch treat… there’s really no bad.

For now, I’m out of doctor’s offices for a while. That’s going to be nice—another follow up in three months, but that’s pretty much it. Cyst was benign—there was really very little chance it wasn’t going to be—and I got to see some good photos of my insides. My liver looks healthy, but the photo also made it look like it has teeth. Hopefully at some point I will have these photos to put on the blog. Which I imagine might not be a big hit, but… they’re my insides, people! Sibley Hospital accidentally put two sets of photos in my file at the hospital instead of giving me the spare set like they were supposed to. I wonder if this is how the civil war general who constantly visited his own leg bone in Washington felt?

So, fingers crossed that I’m going to have a lot less drama in the coming months.

I’ve been rereading The Beauty of the Husband and starting to make notes and bibliographies for myself. I’ve got some other reading to get done for Monday—in fact, Monday is going to be a very busy day this semester. Thinking of trying to get out to some of DCs free stuff this coming week, and I’ll be going to see the Silver Jews play next week. I’m also hoping to see Juliana Hatfield on Tuesday—I’ve loved her, in probably far too dorky and devoted a way, for nearly a decade now… Without counting my love for her My So-Called Life so-called angel appearance.

Oh, and I’ve watched a truly shameful amount of old-school 90210 lately. You know what? I choose me. (Jeremy Jordan—alright!)

So I’ve been underground for a while. It’s been a fairly overwhelming month—finishing up teaching, going straight into ER visits, painkillers, surgery. My wonderful parents being in town, and then all of us going out of town the moment I was well enough, and then the day after getting back, straight back into the university life, with the welcome party for the next academic year, and meeting with Carolyn (Forché) who will be my thesis advisor over the next year, as well as attending her undergraduate class on the poetry of witness.

I guess I got a little down when I was sick—I felt drained at the end of teaching (full of self-doubt as to whether my students felt that they had learned, and whether I am, in fact, a capable teacher) and had wanted the couple of weeks before semester to relax, do some reading, prepare myself emotionally for the final year of this particular degree… (I feel like I’m going to be endlessly juggling degrees, though I hope sometime my place will become more obvious.)

What’s actually been nice in the past few days to take my mind off that slight depression has been helping out a friend. Having someone to check up on regularly. Also, knitting helps. Television does not.

So I’ve been starting to think out my Anne Carson project. An initial discussion with Carolyn yesterday has had me thinking through some ways to focus, which has made me happy. I will get there in the end. I have some Wordsworth and Coleridge to read too… No shortage of things to do!

I feel like I’m going to get some writing done sometime—sometime. I’m going to try to have at least a day off each week, and to try to get some writing bits and pieces done as well. Try. Who knows if that will ever happen…

Tomorrow I’ll sign up for my writing center hours—and hopefully it won’t take too much longer to find out which Liberal Studies class I’m working with so I’ll have a real idea of what my schedule is going to be. And then I guess I’ll have to block out my study properly. I was so good about that in Melbourne last year. I feel like I haven’t been quite as good here, but I’m going to start working on it.

So I’ve been reading mostly poetry, and trying to get Independence Day Project bits and pieces written.

It’s sad that my parents are gone! It’s only three days since they left, but it has been feeling like an age.

Another quick update—I’m on odd hours, and yet more painkillers. Hopefully these will wear off in a few days and everything will return to normal as August draws to an end.

The surgery went well—sent home yesterday, and have spent most of the past 36 hours sleeping. When I wasn’t sleeping, I read Siri Hustvedt’s The Sorrows of an American—finally. For some reason I hadn’t got to it earlier. Had started it, and then found it wasn’t the right time. In this slightly otherworldishness of post-surgery it seems to have been the right time. I felt very calm as I read it.

I have three punctures in my belly. When I get up I have to hold my belly with my hands. I can feel my navel, which upsets me, and when I got to sit up, I sometimes feel like my insides will tumble out. Obviously this is all the result of my strange head, but—. So I hold onto my stomach.

It feels a little unreal. My parents are here—wonderful! Unfortunately the holiday as it was planned has ruptured a little. Still, we should be out of DC for a day or two at least.

I’ve been lying low. There are people I want to talk to, people I want to see. Some of them I’ve spoken to, and some I haven’t quite called… I will get to it. But there are people I realise I haven’t seen for weeks, and getting in touch again after a gap—and it’s a strange gap, when there’s suddenly been this medical stuff—feels difficult. And, too, I get into that haze where I want to talk to the new people in my life. And, well, I’m somewhere in that tumble.

Class goes back very soon. I will probably be missing my first class still, but with any luck after that it should all be fine. Everything will suddenly be busy and word-filled.

Just a quick update: another ER visit last night, ending in my being discharged by accident. Yes, that’s right. Accidentally discharged, and since I was gone they said I should just keep the appointment I had with the clinic doctor today. Never mind that at Georgetown this morning before the nurse got rid of me the doctors were waiting for a team of surgeons, while at the clinic I was scheduled only for another sonogram… Anyway, another night of morphine and drama, followed by a kind of lecture from the doctor today. (Didn’t I tell you to ring the clinic if your condition got worse? he asked. Well, yes, he did tell me that. And when I felt a little worse on Friday and rang, the person on the emergency number told me there wasn’t a lot they could do, but that if it got significantly worse before my appointment to go back to the ER. And, yes, once I started vomiting last night, my only thought was to get to hospital, and not to call the afterhours number at the clinic, leave a message, and wait for a call back.)

Now I have the surgery scheduled for Thursday morning. Not at Georgetown, but at Sibley Hospital. Which is, I have to say, a pretty fancy place. Not that I’ll care when the general anaesthetic hits.

Somewhere amid all the shufflings last week on Monday night (I love how they send the hospital administrators to get your ID before they give you the morphine), I think I lost my drivers license. Brilliant. Another bureaucratic thing to fix up… Oh, and my (printable) healthcare card is—somewhere. If I can’t find it, I have to find my details in order to print another card. Printable healthcare cards? Seriously?

Truth be told, I’m a little bit down about it all. Last week it was just a hassle. After a second ER visit in as many weeks, three sonograms (hey! did you know the image on a sonogram changes when you laugh? I found out today. Yes. I laughed), a few IV drips, and the news that if anything the cyst is larger, I’m pretty miserable. So, in less than 48 hours it will be gone.

I still can’t believe a hospital can discharge someone by accident. That is just awful.

In the mean time, I turn to books for solace. Finished the new Paul Auster. I liked it a lot. A few friends came up with the theory that only every second book he writes is good. This is a good one. Just finished Lisa Olstein’s Radio Crackling, Radio Gone, and have also been reading Julia Hartwig’s book of selected poems, In Praise of the Unfinished. This last book is beautiful. I’ll write more about it when all the other stuff is over and done with.

My parents arrived an hour ago. I haven’t seen them yet—they were getting out of the airport, getting their rental car, getting themselves to their hotel… then thinking about getting to Georgetown. The plan initially had been my finding my way to Dupont… but I don’t think I’m finding my way anywhere. Except maybe into dreams.

I’ve been a bit slow updating on the health stakes. And on generally getting stuff done. I ended up taking the vicoden a few days ago, and it’s left me a bit loopy since. (I’m realising that “loopy” is probably a word that no-one but my mum and I have used for 50 years… but I like it that way.)

The followup: Thursday. I like the doctor—I think he’s from a Germanic (possibly Jewish) background. Not being there for a Sunday brunch, I didn’t get to ask. He confirmed all the stuff I’d been reading—most functional cysts go away on their own, etc. Then he had a look at the thing and had a bit of an “oh dear,” moment. Well, he wasn’t worried, but said it is big, and obviously hasn’t just formed in a month or two, nor is it likely to just resolve itself. So, more tests on Tuesday. But he thinks that it is likely I will need surgery at some point—but non-invasive. I shouldn’t be out of action for too long. Good stuff.

But, as I said, I did upgrade to vicoden. The ibuprofen had been working fine. Then Robyn came, to give me her bicycle for while she’s in Hungary. (Thanks Robyn!) Now, I was sleepy, and a little drugged up already, so I probably should have known that this was prime time for me to do something stupid. Like, for instance, fall over while trying to get the bike to my apartment, and, lying something like a cockroach on its back, have the bike fall on top of me.

I laughed. Really loudly. You know, that cavernous Kate-laugh you all miss so much. Got up, figured out that I’d been standing on the wrong side of the bike—not able to use my hip to prop open the door—and got the thing up to my apartment. Lay down again. Then—ouch! It turns out when you have a painful thing in your abdomen, it’s not a good idea to fall over and have a bike fall on top of you. So, having rung the clinic again and made sure that it was fine it was hurting more (but to look out for nausea, dizziness and—especially—fever) I took the vicoden.

Whoosh. That’s crazy stuff. I’ve been sleeping very well—and for long periods of time—but also at weird hours. My professional opinion? (As a professional sleeper, that is.) There is no way House could have functioned that well while he was all painkiller-happy in season one. (Gosh. That’s casting my mind back a few years…)

So, Tuesday is a busy day. I have to first of all talk to incoming International Students about the writing center. I’m looking forward to that. Then I have to get out to my appointment. (I think the lovely Lisa is going to take me again…) Then my parents arrive later that afternoon at Dulles. Bliss!

Hopefully dodging all tricky pain/surgery related things, Paul Auster is going to be at Politics and Prose on Thursday night. I think, as one of DC’s best independent bookstores, I should be able to get my parents there, even though neither have read—or are likely to read, Auster. I am a quarter of the way through his new book, which I started two hours ago, taking a break for dinner (Sicilian Caponata) and most of an episode of Dynasty. (Oh my! The first major Krystle/Alexis catfight. I laughed out loud. Nice to know I didn’t invent high drama.)

I’m enjoying Man in the Dark so far. I have a pile of things I want to attempt to read before classes start again. Today I finished The Working Poor: Invisible in America, which I found amazing. The author, David K. Shipler, lives in Chevy Chase, Maryland—a lot of the people and programs he followed are local to DC. It made me want to go and find out more about them. I also finished reading my first book of C. D. Wright’s poetry (thanks for the tip, Brandon) One Big Self. I loved it. When I’ve been having my 2am nights (care of vicoden) I’ve been scribbling notes in my notebooks (I found one I thought I had lost… thank god. I’ve lost notebooks before, and it’s an awful feeling)—well, scribbling in my notebook when I wasn’t chatting to a friend (Chris) who had drunk coffee, and was apparently wide awake (not normally a coffee drinker… ah, the amateurs don’t know how to do these things…) or typing slightly mad emails to people.

Apparently my dopey conversations at Baked and Wired have been hilarious. Leaning on the counter, half asleep, vicoden-laced Kate.

It’s been a really busy month for independence days—and September will be busy too. After that, it will settle down. I’m glad. I’m used to doing that writing every day, but I’m hoping that I can put the time towards something—profitable? University-oriented? Who knows? Crazier things have happened.

This week has had drama. It all started out nicely—another Fulbrighter farewell last Friday night (Szia Robyn!) with a little whisky, a little chatting with friends. Some hours clocked at Baked and Wired. A dinner out. A little bit of time cleaning my room. Weekend stuff.

Then I woke up on Monday morning.

So, I didn’t feel right when I woke up—perhaps like there was a little cramp or something. Still, I was determined to stick to routine, and went and got my coffee, did some reading (finished Philip Roth’s The Dying Animal over a bagel) and then went back to the apartment, planning to get some more reading done, followed by some writing. But my stomach felt worse. So, I lay down with a heatpack on my stomach and fell asleep for awhile, woke up, and found it was worse again. I wasn’t exactly sure what I should do, and thought for a moment maybe it was something appendix related (I almost don’t believe in appendicitis—isn’t that like those phone numbers starting with “555”: invented for television?) and found that the appendix is on the other side of the body from where I was feeling pain. Still, it got worse. It was after 5, and so the student health clinic was closed. My friend Lisa suggested the ER. My reaction was—What if it’s nothing? Even with insurance, isn’t an ER in the US expensive? (This reminds me of the time I fainted off my bicycle on a major road during peak hour—when I came to someone was phoning an ambulance. Groggy as I was, I was still able to say “Don’t! I don’t have ambulance cover!” Oh dear.) So I rang my mother in Australia (as with the best mothers, she is all-knowing) and she thought that since it had been getting worse over 6 hours or so I should go see someone.

Fastforward to: a trip to the ER. I’d been lying still for quite a while, and apparently my body didn’t like walking anymore. I got out of the building, and then started throwing up outside. Nice. Lisa brought the car round. No more nausea. Phew.

Took me a few minutes to even find the ER—the Georgetown Hospital isn’t terribly well-signed. They should do something about that. Did the triage thing a few times, with waiting in between. On the scale of one to ten I initially estimated the pain at 7. Within an hour I would have been screaming ten. I was fine and then suddenly it was all just unbearable. High drama!

So the doctors thought that, yes, it might be appendicitis. Especially when I started pain-induced nausea as it got worse. Apparently the pain can manifest itself more on the left even though the appendix is on the right. So, first an IV, and anti-nausea medication, plus morphine. Morphine? Yes. It told you there was high-drama.

I had to drink about a litre of this slightly fizzy stuff as I awaited a CT scan—apparently you have to have it an hour before the scan. Some other lovely injections when I got to the CT scan room—and, to make the experience extra special, more vomiting. The results? I do not have appendicitis. Sigh of relief, right? Except, why do I still hurt?

New theory: let’s send her for an ultrasound. (No, this story doesn’t end with it turning out I’m pregnant with alien children.) But some more morphine first, as I was starting to get all feverish and crazy. Ultrasound finds an 11cm ruptured cyst. I realise, my dear readers, that some of you might not want to read about this. But apparently its one of the things a body can do to itself—most women have “functional” cysts at some point, but mine clearly wasn’t functioning very well, what with the pain and the vomiting and the rupture. On the bright side, I did get to see ultrasound images of my insides. Oh, and the attached picture is not of my insides. My cyst is bigger than this one.

The result? After 6 or so hours in the ER I was released with a few pieces of paper, prescriptions for painkillers (including Vicoden… but I’m managing on the industrial strength Ibuprofen) and the instruction to see a doctor within three days for further tests.

So, at the moment I have a lot of Ibuprofen in my system, and am due at the doctor’s office tomorrow. Most likely? Blood tests, more ultrasound, and at some point an opinion as to whether I’ll need a surgery or not. Surgery? Well, I’m okay with that—thank god I have health insurance—but if it’s required it involves entry via the stomach, and I’m really not okay with that. (I expect most of you know how much I hate to have my belly button touched. The idea of a caesarian makes me want to faint—hell, seeing a navel piercing makes me want to faint.) Anyway, from what I've read I don't think the surgery should be needed, and I think they wait a while to see if goes away on its own anyway.

It’s all a bit of a “hold on tight” thing. I was all upset, and now I’m just kind of puzzled. It all seems so strange. And how did I get the timing? Just after I finished teaching, a few weeks before my own classes start. I even have my parents coming in next week. What a whirl.

At least last night I ate icecream by the canal. That was nice.

The weekend saw the first of two goodbyes I’m finding quite wrenching: my friend Carolyn leaves today for a year in Bulgaria. Bulgaria? She’s a Fulbrighter, and she’ll be based in Sofia for the next year. She’s been renamed Karolinka —as she puts it, Carolyn translated, just as her whole life is about to be translated to Bulgaria. I’m going to miss her: it’s funny, I’ve known Carolyn less than a year, and I’ve probably only seen her about ten times this year (we’ve both been busy and never shared a class) but now that she’s leaving I know just how much I’m going to miss her. The one this I’m looking forward to is some corresponding. I’ve gotten a little behind on my letter-writing of late, but I’m hoping to sit down and catch up on letters in the next few days.

We celebrated Carolyn with a stooping party: sitting on the stoop to her fabulous group house in the U Street area, drinking wine and—as this was the deluxe party—grilling burgers on the stoop, transforming the whole experience in to a “Stoop-a-Q.” It was the perfect Saturday night, really. I’ve been enjoying spending time with some different people in the summer, from the Baked and Wired pool party, to stooping with Carolyn’s crowd, to the poetry group last week.

Oh, and hanging at Fort Reno last night. I’ve only just found out that summer sees a bunch of free concerts at Fort Reno park up in the Tenley Town area of DC. While I found out at the tail end, at least I did find out. And there are still concerts this week and next week. I had such a good time at the concert last night, and I ran into Taylor and Chris (from the poetry group—Taylor’s my link, through Baked and Wired, to the poetry thing). There was dancing, there was chatting, there was lying on the grass on a beautiful evening. In other words, the perfect Monday evening in DC. I’m looking forward to the next concert: Thursday.

I’ve been looking at lists of gigs coming up, too—there are some good musicians coming through in September, including Juliana Hatfield. I know, I know, I’m probably showing my age or something. (At 28, I don’t care: it’s a great age to show.) I love Juliana Hatfield, unapologetically, and I’m excited that she’ll be playing in the area in a month. When I had to select about 20 CDs to bring with me when I moved over last year, I had to bring one of hers. Sometimes her music is the equivalent of Linus’s blanket.

Speaking of September, for some reason I’ve started to think about my birthday party. In part because it’s now settled that I’m staying in my current apartment. Also, I suspect, because I’ve been having a real return to my music-is-everything mode, and dancing around my apartment I keep thinking about when I’ll have my next party. Answer? Ushering in 29.

Oh, and yes there are a few days left of class. I wonder if I’m guilty of leaving things too implicit sometimes? I had designed this week as something quite loose—time for revising, but also “looking forward/looking back.” Looking back? To the zeitgeist moment of 1990, with the launch of Beverly Hills, 90210. We watched the pilot, and, thinking through why 1990 was suddenly the time to launch what I still think of as the defining teen drama (yes, My So-Called Life is infinitely superior, but it was a cult show, while 90210 somehow was everywhere at the time) I found myself linking it to No Logo, and the sudden moment when youth was not only commodified, but also became such an important consumer-based. Especially thinking through the fact that 90210 was full of actors in their 20s playing 16. I think only two of them were teenagers when it started. Even just thinking through the fact that it was pretty much all adults showing “youth.” But when I make these kinds of connections, I find I can’t necessarily express them.

Today—workshopping towards the final portfolio. I seem to only have two students left standing. (One has vanished.) If the weather stays nice I think I’ll shift us outside. I do like the outside world…

I’ve been a bit slow letting you know my underground activities this week—things have been busy, though actually a little less busy than last week, when I was finishing off the Discovery Class.

I’m in a really wonderful mood this afternoon—even though my class wasn’t ready to discuss Henry James, we had a really productive session looking through their four page papers on Dead Poets Society. We didn’t get through all of them, but looking at two really in-depth was good. Once again things are being re-arranged—we’ll look at some short papers tomorrow, as well as hopefully the last two Dead Poets responses, and then look through Daisy Miller on Monday. I’m hoping to free up Tuesday and Wednesday for class peer-reviewing, and I’ve given the students extra options with their portfolio: if, having written their four original papers, all around 4 pages, they really hate one, they can discard it and turn another paper into an eight page piece of writing. I told my class, too, about some of the pedagogical articles on the teaching of writing, because I found them useful to thinking about my own writing. They’re really interested in reading them—and the reason I think that this is something very helpful for students is that they make even more explicit the degree to which writing is a process. To teach something, you have to be able to break it down in those process-steps.

Earlier this week I read a draft of my friend Carolyn’s thesis. She’s writing on pedagogies of writing, and one of the things that interested me most what her writing about how experts in other fields approach their work/become experts, and how that may be applied to the writing process. One of her central analogies was to the musician: obviously, with my training, this would appeal. The thing that rang true is the fact that the amateur musician plays a piece from start to finish. Even if they stop to go over where the mistakes might lie and practice those tricky passages a few times, they still “start at the top.” The expert musician will tend to go straight to the problematic parts, and work at the technique. I remember, oh so many times, starting with long tone exercises for maybe half an hour, then an hour or so on the technical parts of playing the flute before maybe allowing a quarter of a two-hour practice session on playing pieces of music… and still rarely from start to finish. I’m less disciplined when I do pick up my flute now, but I have that training, and I know what it means to play at a high level, and I still play through to find where the problems lie and then attack those sections. It’s so interesting. So I talked to my students about this idea, how getting these fundamentals in place allows you to do all the other things: if I can’t get the technique of the flute, putting “interpretation” and “style” on top won’t cover the failure in fundamentals. The basic form of an argumentative essay is, to some degree, a fundamental—getting that in place gives you the opportunity to then have fun with the piece of writing.

I feel like things have been going well, even in the very small class. It doesn’t feel like as much hard work—I’ve gotten better at asking questions, and when we workshopped the longer papers today, I could see the two students whose work we were looking at begin to voice the feedback I would give before I was giving it. I’m really loving this class.

Earlier this week we’ve look at two short stories and the opening portion of a novel. The first story we looked at was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “Bernice Bobs Her Hair.” One student came in and asked why everything was so repetitious, but said too that The Great Gatsby was his favourite book. I told him to go home and read “Bernice Bobs Her Hair,” and think about if this was Daisy’s set, 6 years before the action of Gatsby. He came in the next day and said he loved the story. We looked then at two really recent pieces of writing—Nell Freudenberger’s “The Tutor” from Lucky Girls, and the opening chapter of Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep, to think through what kind of things are set up in the beginning of a story, and how contrasts and oppositions (here, class, race) are set up at the outset of most works. I feel like each student responded to different work, though with such a small number of people it was hard to keep the conversation going all the time. Still, I loved it when a student came in to discuss “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” and said, “It’s just like Mean Girls.” Now I haven’t seen Mean Girls yet, but the trailer told me a lot, and judging by the trailer I agree…

In other news, one of the Baked and Wired boys, Taylor, invited me to this poetry group last night. So I wandered up to Columbia Heights and found myself having such a great time: reading poems, writing poems. (I feel like my poem is a good basis for a poem, but it is, at the moment, a little too “neat.” Sometimes I think my endings resolve too quickly—like it used to be with my music. I’ve gotten much better with the poems, but it takes work, and twenty minutes last night wasn’t enough. Also, I feel like a bit of research will add something to the mix.) It was such a relief to talk about poetry. I feel like I’ve been so ensconced in teaching, that some of my fundamental activities—reading, writing—haven’t had as much attention as they otherwise would, or as they should. So, I’m going to try to get some more bits of writing happening in the next week, even before class finishes. Then I’ll have another ten days or so to think and laze about and maybe get out of town for a day or two before my parents arrive.

Did I mention that my mother and father are coming out? I haven’t seen them since early January, and Skype conversations don’t quite make up for it. In three weeks I’ll be in the Australian fold. I’m a happy, happy Miss Kate.

Gosh! Is it Wednesday night already?

I’ve always known that teachers read student work, and grade student work—but as a student I don’t think I ever understood how much thought and work that process of commenting on student writing takes. To be sure, you get a really varying degree of response—from no response, to red marks over every mistake, to a full page of comments on the writing. I try to give response both in a timely fashion (I fail at this sometimes… I mean, when I say “sometimes it takes me a week to get work back,” it doesn’t seem bad—but we’re meeting every day. To me this seems too long, and I certainly don’t want to get buried under student work…) and in a way that is constructive. I suppose I will see how this is working when I start to see new work from students after they received their initial feedback, as well as revisions. I think it worked in the Discovery Class—at the outset I told students I was happy to regrade any work they wanted to rewrite, based on feedback, outside of class time, and the few that have rewritten have improved a lot. I don’t know if they’re putting a lot of time into the revisions, whereas our class time is restricted, or if it’s about as much time again, just with a little guidance. I suppose as I teach more I’ll be able to see what kind of progress is being made.

And speaking of my Discovery Class—tomorrow is my last day with them. I’m pretty sad. I’ve had some really good days with them, as well as some when I’ve felt that they haven’t responded. I think since I did start getting their work back to them very punctually that has also helped break the ice a little too. It’s over so quickly! I’ve taught 13 classes with them, and tomorrow is the 14th and final. I asked them what they wanted to do—they asked to watch Clueless. I tried to find a copy on short notice, but didn’t. I’ll take a few things in so they have the option on what we watch/do. And I’m bringing strawberries. But before that, there is still about half an hour of writing left to do.

And speaking of watching movies, we ended up taking a day in between watching the first two thirds of Dead Poets Society and the last section in class—between my returning it after class in the late afternoon and returning the next morning not long after the library was open, someone else came and borrowed it! I ended up buying a copy last night, since I’m using it in both classes. The most interesting thing, though, was that we talked for about forty minutes in class on yesterday about where the narrative had taken us so far, and talked about narrative conventions—almost none of the students had seen the film before, and I asked them to make guesses based on what they had watched on what would happen to the characters. There were a lot of the “types” we had already seen in our trailers exercise—rebel, shy kid, new kid, lovelorn, nerd—and based on those types and the narratives we’re all familiar with, they were able to make some pretty good guesses. They then wrote responses to one of two different quotes from Mr Keating in the classroom—and it was the best batch of writing I had received from them.

Today we finished watching the film in my morning (Discovery) class, and we started watching it in my afternoon class. I cried in the morning class—I’m afraid it’s going to happen again tomorrow! None of the students wanted to talk about the film immediately after we finished it this morning. I understand that. It’s hard to take in, and then voice an immediate response (beyond: wah! Neil!) really.

I still thinking through commenting on student work. I think my comments have been getting longer—I don’t mind writing very detailed comments, but I also don’t want to overwhelm students. When Joe Harris ran a workshop at Georgetown last year on responding to student writing, he said he tended to err on the side of brevity. At the same time, I feel that the students in my Expository Writing class want all the feedback I can give them—they are really keen to improve their writing, and think about academic forms. I feel like some were a little disappointed with their first grades—but they are all provisional. Every piece can be revised, and I’m happy to talk to read another draft before they submit their final portfolio. I know they’re all capable of doing really well—and their papers all show that they’re heading there. It’s actually exciting to see, for the first time, the full process of students going through these stages, and at the same time, reformulating their ideas about what it is to write an academic paper.

Fingers crossed I don’t cry too much in class tomorrow. I might have to warn them in advance I’m a big sook over sad movies.

I’ve entered my last week of two classes a day, and from next week I’ll have more time in the mornings. I’ll be able to get to the gym and do all my grading day to day. I’m looking forward to it.

I was disappointed to find out today that one of my students has left the university—my small class is even smaller. Another student has been having some health problems, and so I’ve had a couple of classes with only three students. When it gets down to that number it can be hard to keep the conversation going—hard to keep the interest moving along.

I came in today with my movie trailer exercise for the expository writing class. I was interested that the students picked up on exactly how much was being replayed in the trailers very quickly. I had a long list of trailers—and I’d emailed the list to students before class so they would have them to refer back to—and we didn’t get through them all. I feel like the exercise fell a little flat this time around—I’m wondering if it’s that they felt the repetitions were so overt? It strange—watching them not as texts, as a form on their own, has been really interesting for me. Perhaps the students have already got the point about representation and types. Are they one step ahead of me? It’s possible.

I think it’s the smaller classroom. In the discovery class, students who hadn’t previously spoken in class made links between different films. None really started to get into the more mechanical side—the fact that the introduction of the music that sees out the trailer (and makes the viewer excited, supposedly, that it’s “coming soon”) basically adheres to the golden section. I tried to point out the post-MTV changes to the trailers—each seems more like a video clip than they did before MTV. We talked about some of the basic stories. How certain things “signify.” Maybe I’ll bring in a piece from Barthes’s Mythologies to see how his writing helps us think through the trailer. Teaching trailers I certainly find that I’m more interested in them as a form. I don’t know if this translates to my students suddenly being more interested. I do wonder if I’ve chosen too much that might be considered minutiae? I’m interested in everything—but I know that doesn’t necessarily translate. Hmm.

This morning class was watching Dead Poets Society. At the 85 minute mark the real drama is yet to come. I asked students who hadn’t seen the film before to think about the films they’ve seen before, the stories they’ve read before, and what they expect to happen next. To experience the narrative in an accumulative fashion, and think through the conventions. What I think of, after last semester, as a “Ragussian” method.

Grading. Let’s talk about grading for a second.

How do I grade a class where I can’t give the students homework? I’ve been grading on the high side for the discovery class, because in a classroom setting you can’t assume everyone (anyone?) is going to be able to write a high quality essay. I mean, the environment doesn’t work for some people. No-one has access to a computer, and some people do work that way. People work at very difference paces, and don’t have access to all the resources (I’m think of EFL students) they might need to do their best work. I try to make the OED online available, but students rarely want to come to the front of the class to check things. I ask them to peer review, but not all students are able to give the kind of feedback that helps. I put a list of questions on the board for last week’s peer reviewing, and when students wrote reflections about how they might rewrite their paper, they would comment that their peer thought they’d done really well, and they just had to fix some grammar mistakes. It’s difficult to gauge how to approach it.

Mostly I have been emphasising participation, responding the peer reviews in the format required, and making sure students quote and analyse sources in their papers. And I’m really pleased that somehow all the assignments are working on an analytical level.

So, the last couple of days have seen me ready to fall asleep as soon as I get home, but having to stay up to get some things done. It’s been slow.

This week seems to be less exciting for the students in both classes. In the morning (discovery) class the week started out with advertising, and then moved to poetry. (Obviously the two belong together… ?) While students seemed to be entirely confused about why I might want them to look at the ads I was giving them—and, let’s face it, the more magazines you flip through, the better you are at tuning out those pesky pages—they all did a good job at them. First I broke them into groups and asked them to brainstorm together, and present to the class what was happening in their ad.

I set the assignment as first a straight description, followed by an analysis/interpretation, based on the central question: “why might the advertiser have chosen to include/portray that element.” After speaking in front of the class, and having the rest of the class make occasional extra observations, I asked the students to write a one page analysis—no introductory paragraph that tells me advertisements are used to sell clothes, just getting straight to the point. Description, detail, interpretations and analysis. I do find it interesting that the students seemed to think it was a silly exercise, and then, comparatively, they were really very good at it. I was talking to Samantha Pinto, a member of the faculty at Georgetown, about this, and she said that students she teaches in her general writing classes also really respond to the visual. Is it to do with our attention span?

And then on to poems. We looked at three poems, one by Gwendolyn Brooks (‘We Real Cool’—it definitely fits the class theme…) and two by Seamus Heaney—‘Digging’ and ‘Clearances #4.’ Pretty much anyone who has ever met me has heard me rave about the latter. It ended up being a line by line activity—yesterday I think I probably did too much of the reading myself. In part I was demonstrating, I guess, the types of questions/difficulties you encounter when reading a poem, but in part I was just giving into the urge to fill the silence. Not absolute silence, but that waiting for someone to speak up.

Today we spent nearly an hour on ‘Clearances’—fourteen lines, and we went into it in real detail. I got a bit more sleep last night (and woke up with so much to do—was off in a rush again…) and decided I was happy to stare them out. So—it was on the quiet side, but somehow it didn’t feel bad. I had students answering that hadn’t answered before. I asked a couple of times who normally don’t contribute to the discussion to answer or read parts of the poem, and answer very simple questions. I asked people to paraphrase sentences, to tell me what words were repeated. I got answers to most of my questions, even if it felt like the answers came on delay. The last half hour was handed over to writing: I asked the students to choose one of the three poems and write an analysis of it. I told them I expect a page, or more—not all students are writing the amount I’m asking for. So—I’ll have to figure out how to approach that. Besides via grading. I mean, yes, I can’t expect everyone to be equally engaged, but when I see a student staring off into space instead of writing, see them having written a third of a page and telling me they’re finished—then I’ve been going and asking questions. Oh wise ones out there, is that pedagogically sound?

Then there are my afternoon students. Perhaps I’m back to confusing them. This week is meant to be print media—so a lot of it is dry compared with what we were looking at last week. I got a greater sense of engagement from the students when we were looking at narratives than this week when we’ve been looking both at narrative essays and more theoretical/historical writing.

Monday they managed to distract me altogether—by distract me, I mean to say that I taught a class I had been going to leave for the final week. We looked at some websites, including my Facebook page. I wanted to look at social networking as a means of representation—two of my students showed the class their myspace pages and we talked about the ways people use these to create an online identity for themselves. It was interesting.

Yesterday, though, we got back to the plan and looked at some reading on sociology, as well as David Brooks’s article “The Organization Kid.” Most weren’t particularly interested in the sociology—one student found it really interesting, but others were resistant to it. It was very much on the “introducing concepts” side. Plus, I guess in part since I’m not trained in sociology I found it difficult to know how to approach it, given their lack of enthusiasm. Then we talked through the David Brooks article—I was initially expecting the students to be really resistant to this piece from the Atlantic that depicted them as incredibly goal-oriented, to the extent that the writer portrays a concern with character and moral integrity lacking. That the writer is basing a large series of generalisations—in which he isolates some features of the students attending Princeton, and then writes these features can be read across the “younger generation” in some measure—on the conversations he had with a few dozen students. Especially since these are students he found from having their professors send their details to him, rather than making contact himself.

I had my own reaction to this as a piece of writing, and the surprise came when the students probably recognised more of the piece of writing than I did. Assume nothing, Kate. Outside the Writing Center, I haven’t spoken to a lot of current undergraduate students in America—it was an interesting discussion. I wonder if it was more interesting for me than for them? I was mostly surprised that no-one really seemed to want to argue against the assertions that Brooks made. They thought some were exaggerated, but didn’t have a lot to say.

Then today I asked them to read a section of No Logo that talks about the rise of youth as a demographic to target, marketing-wise, but also to commodify. Unfortunately, not everyone had read it in full. Still, I had some other things ready, and they know I expect them to have the chapter read for tomorrow. While going through some of the things Klein points out, I was able to sprinkle in more of the visual, as well as an article from last week’s New York Times—from the style section. I started the discussion with the product placement segment of Wayne’s World, and asked them to think about what was going on there. Yes: they’re making fun of product placement, they’re making a point that to allow it they’d be selling out—but they’re still including it. Yes, it’s funny. But more than that, it’s a great ad. Some slogans are repeated even as they’re made fun of. The products are still being worn or held by the “celebrities.” How do you read that?

The New York Times article was about the sudden market for designer sunglasses. (Honestly, I thought that had been big business since Tom Cruise put on his Raybans in the 1980s.) There were really varied responses. A couple of students admitted to going out and spending some pretty serious money on sunglasses, and to having the brands named in the article. Another student said the whole thing was a waste of paper. There’s a fine line there between a report on a fashion trend, and the creation of hype for certain brands and certain shops—the article starts with a high-end sunglasses emporium. Name the shop. Name the brands and styles of the moment. Name the price, just in case anyone knows their friend has a pair, but never found out how much they cost. The debate that started up (and led, somehow, from sunglasses to crocs) was quite vigorous—but was also still on the surface level. How to dig in?

We ended by looking at some advertising images online that I found, and talking through the types of strategies that the advertisers were using. Tomorrow we’ll do some work with the print advertisements I distributed.

Oh, and because it made me happy, I also showed them the Sesame Street 1234 video that’s coming up on the new revamped Sesame Street—this was sent to me yesterday, after I’d just read in the newspaper that Sesame Street is revamping its website, to make it more attractive to its demographic—yes, the under 5 set have a lot of power. And those of us who watched Sesame Street well into our teens and twenties…

I’ve got to forge the link back to representation, and the “so what?” critical questions that were lacking in looking at the images and videos today. Fingers crossed. Next week it’s back to fun stuff, but there’s still some work to get through this week.