monoceros blogsLast day of November in 2004. Exactly two weeks of school left. I can feel the gun against my temple. Watch me write 45 pages in two weeks. Watch me stay up till the hour before dawn breaks. Watch me submit fellowship applications and not get any offers (why am I still applying?). Watch me grade more papers than I've ever graded in the past semester. When it's all over, then maybe I'll start getting into the Christmas groove.
It's the 30th of November today, and I'm splitting the skin on the backs of my fingers with my typing. Where is this entry going? Nowhere, it appears, as am I.
But there's always a song somewhere and this is the song for today.
"Learn To Be Lonely" from The Phantom Of The Opera
Child of the wilderness
Born into emptiness
Learn to be lonely
Learn to find your way in darkness
Who will be there for you
Comfort and care for you
Learn to be lonely
Learn to be your one companion
Never dreamed out in the world
There are arms to hold you
You?ve always known
Your heart was on its own
So laugh in your loneliness
Child of the wilderness
Learn to be lonely
Learn how to love life that is lived alone
Learn to be lonely
Life can be lived
Life can be loved alone
~ Music and lyrics by Andrew Lloyd Webber
I've been trying hard to finish grading papers and writing several of my own. Since it's Thanksgiving weekend, the school of music has been relatively quiet with just a few die-hard musicians and one desperate writer. I've been using one of the seminar rooms - no distractions, no food, no comfortable futon to nap on (although I did manage just one power nap while slouching in the chair).
I met up with Frank, who's been practising Bartok, and enlisted his help with some argumentation questions that arose while I was grading. After that, I got him to play Chopin's Berceuse just so I could hear it being played properly for once. I don't quite do enough justice to the piece on my own so it was nice to hear Frank perform it. I also requested some of Ennio Morricone's music, and watching him sight-read the scores (without errors, of course) made me appreciate my friendships with musicians. It's always nice to listen to recordings but to watch a musician perform before you (and now I'm reminded of the time I watched Peiming and Noella rehearse Astor Piazzolla's Le Grand Tango) is a real treat. I'm very much looking forward to the recitals lined up for next semester.
Frank also introduced to me Chopin's Barcarolle. What did he call it, a piece of gondolier music? It's very pretty and I'm going to hunt for my own recording. Becuase I'm going to graduate and leave Ann Arbor one day, and then I won't be surrounded anymore by musicians who I can bully into playing my favorite music. Of course I could always holiday in Melbourne and ask Noella to play something just for me, or I could ring up Peiming and have her visit under the pretext of tea and egg tarts, and then point out the piano, how about some Debussy? But she'd probably see right through me.
A classmate in my musicology course - a retired piano teacher and wife to the saxophone professor in the music school (oh, and her son happens to play drums for Alanis Morissette) - once mentioned to me how she loves being retired in Ann Arbor. She gets to take up university courses (without having to write the papers) and she is never far from the music scene. Large scale performances or student recitals, the events make retirement a joy, she said. Something's always going on. What better way to fill the autumnal years? Attending football games? Oh, she goes to those too.
As I listened to her, I tried not to appear envious. There's plenty to look forward to when graduation rolls around, but I'm probably going to miss Ann Arbor very much when it's time to leave. And then there're the friends who'll be staying on or moving away. I don't think I'll go into that today. Still got another semester. Still got to finish that Carmen paper.
More titbits from The Writer's Almanac -
"It's the birthday of poet and artist William Blake, born in London (1757). When he was 25, he married an illiterate girl named Catherine Boucher, who was a devoted wife, although she once remarked, 'I have very little of Mr. Blake's company. He is always in Paradise.' A friend once dropped by to find them sitting in their garden, naked, reciting passages from Paradise Lost. 'Come in!' cried Blake. 'It's only Adam and Eve, you know!' Blake and his wife printed and bound his books, including Songs of Innocence and Experience.
On his deathbed at the age of 69, he said, 'Kate, you have been a good wife, I will draw your portrait.' He drew for an hour, loudly sang what she called 'songs of joy and triumph,' then died gently."
One of the best ways to go. That everyone could be so fortunate - to have your beloved spouse at your side, to do what you set out to do, and to have the strength to sing very heartily just before the Lord calls you home.
The Fly
Little Fly,
Thy summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brush'd away.
Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?
For I dance,
And drink, & sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.
If thought is life
And strength & breath,
And the want
Of thought is death;
Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live
Or if I die.
~ by William Blake
I decided to place an early order with the bookshop for my section's books. Two titles: Garrison Keillor's Good Poems and The Scribner Anthology of Contemporary Short Fiction. While I was at it, I logged onto Wolverine Access to double-check the section number of my course. I was surprised to see I already have eight enrolled students, most of them juniors and seniors. Even more surprising - three engineers.
Time to start memorizing names again.
The first layer of snow. Ain't it pretty? I dug out the snow scraper from the storeroom today. The White Rabbit's windows were frosted over.
I spend my Thanksgiving morning by listening to the radio. Here are some words I heard.
Relatives
Just the thought of them makes your jawbone ache:
those turkey dinners, those holidays with
the air around the woodstove baked to a stupor,
and Aunt Lil's tablecloth stained by her girlhood's gravy.
A doggy wordless wisdom whimpers from
your uncles' collected eyes; their very jokes
creak with genetic sorrow, a strain
of common heritage that hurts the gut.
Sheer boredom and fascination! A spidering
of chromosomes webs even the infants in
and holds us fast around the spread
of rotting food, of too-sweet pie.
The cousins buzz, the nephews crawl;
to love one's self is to love them all.
~ by John Updike
On Thanksgiving:
"On this day, the fourth Thursday in November, Thanksgiving Day, Americans express gratitude for their good fortune. The American Thanksgiving tradition originated with the Pilgrims. As early as 1621, the Puritan colonists of Plymouth, Massachusetts set aside a day of thanks for a bountiful harvest. On October 3, 1789, President George Washington proclaimed the 26th of that November the first national Thanksgiving Day under the Constitution."
On Thanksgiving and Lincoln:
"On October 3, 1863, in the wake of victory at Gettysburg, President Abraham Lincoln decided to issue a Thanksgiving Proclamation declaring the last Thursday in November national Thanksgiving Day. In 1941 Congress made it official."
On Thanksgiving and football:
"On Thanksgiving Day in 1876, The American Intercollegiate Football Association held its first championship game. The sport resembled something of a cross between rugby and modern-day football, but the tradition of playing football on Thanksgiving Day developed with the evolution of the sport itself."
~ excerpts from The Writer's Almanac hosted by Garrison Keillor
Happy holidays.
And so it begins. Snow showers today and slush on the roads. I left the apartment mid-afternoon and it was just rain so I wore slip-on shoes without socks. Huge mistake. By the time I left the office at half-past six, it was freezing rain, snow, slush, and the pavements were slick.
I met Boon at Bivouac, the cool outdoor gear shop on State Street, and was so tempted to buy a pair of socks and boots right there and then. I refrained and saved my money for dinner instead. After listening to Boon's stories, I realize I've had a fairly uninteresting social life or rather, I've been denying myself some great opportunities for observing people. I should get out more, but I just can't bring myself to abandon my work!
Thanksgiving break begins, and on the other side of the world, LK starts his re-service in the army. He's been assigned the post of company commander so it won't be the R & R that he had hoped for. I wish I were back in Singapore now. I don't believe I've ever seen him in his uniform before. It'd be quite hilarious if I put on my set of fatigues (I got a full uniform several years ago for fun when I was headed for a long summer camp in New Hampshire - my friend who helped me procure it even had my name embroidered on a cloth tag) and stood beside him for a picture. The officer and the recruit.
The year my brother went to Michigan, I was an enthusiastic reader of National Geographic Traveler (and still am). One issue featured an article on Isle Royale, and I remember thinking how I'd love to go there. This wonderful island far up north on Lake Superior, closer to Canada than to the U.S.; a hidden jewel in the backyard of Michigan; one of the least known national parks; a place where auroras appear. That was eight years ago.
I'll make it there next summer. I will.
Maybe I'll even make it there tonight when I dream. If I dream. If I get any sleep.
I'll get to sleep. I will.
I believe I've settled on the poetry text for my creative writing course next semester. Mike, a lecturer in the English department, recommended it to me, and even gave me an extra desk copy he'd received. Garrison Keillor is a terribly humorous writer and radio show host on the National Public Radio. I love listening to him on The Writer's Almanac. In Good Poems, he selects 350 poems from the thousands he's read for the show, and they're very good ones.
Apart from this, not much success in the work department. I've got a heap of essays and journals to grade. I think I'll lock myself in the office tomorrow and work very, very hard.
This week's The New Yorker is a cartoon issue, which should be fun. I spotted some Charlie Brown in there. And there's a new Sedaris essay too.
A Primer of the Daily Round
A peels an apple, while B kneels to God,
C telephones D, who has a hand
On E's knee, F coughs, G turns up the sod
For H's grave, I do not understand
But J is bringing one clay pigeon down
While K brings down a nightstick on L's head,
And M takes mustard, N drives into town,
O goes to bed with P, and Q drops dead,
R lies to S, but happens to be heard
By T, who tells U not to fire V
For having to give W the word
That X is now deceiving Y with Z,
Who happens just now to remember A
Peeling an apple somewhere far away.
~ by Howard Nemerov
I've been mucking around with the comments feature and finally figured out that the comments in my date and category archives are still in the pop-up mode. Fixed that, and then overzealous me went into closing comments (and even trackbacks, though I've yet to figure out exactly what that means) for entries more than five days old. This morning, I got up and changed my mind (since my mom wrote and said she wanted to leave some comments on older entries but couldn't do a thing about it), but I realize that I can't undo the changes. I only managed to make sure the entries I've written since my recent changes will have their comments section remain alive for about 20 days. The older ones that were affected by the first closure will have to remain closed.
Other news: how unproductive can I possibly get? I went to the music school to get some copying done, but the copy room was closed. (Handout-crazy instructor that I am, I've already exhausted my copy allowance from the English department, so good friend Jake decided to help me out.) Disappointed, I left for central campus and popped into Borders for a bit. A rather extended visit, and I left with America (The Book): A Citizen's Guide to Democracy Inaction by The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, who looks terrific on the cover. Borders is offering a 50% off the publisher's price, so I thought I'd get a copy. It's seriously comic (oxymoron intended) and even has a little barbed attack on Singapore and a few other Asian countries ("Dynastic political families/De facto one-party rule/Major election fraud - check"). This makes me wonder if the stores in Singapore are selling this title.
Thanksgiving break is almost here. And then it's two and a half weeks of school before December break. Last year, I had a picture of Ms. Croft aiming her beretta at little Totoro to represent the kind of stress I was under. This year, I don't even have time to take whimsical snapshots.
I only have myself to blame for such ill discipline.
On my wishlist this Christmas (in no particular order):
1. Superior powers of concentration
2. That the White Rabbit will accept my car key and start the engine every single time
3. That I get no writer's or mental block for the next 50 years
4. Upon graduation, a job that I will be happy with
5. Time to write and read
6. Patience
7. Confidence
8. Time to play The Sims 2
9. A trip to Mackinac Island and the rest of Northern Michigan, and especially Isle Royale National Park on Lake Superior (I want to hike!)
10. Get all my work done on time
You are Snoopy! my friend you are totally relaxed
and stay calm in most situations. You are loved
by all... well almost everyone. the original
"Joe Cool"
what peanuts character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Just like dear friend Tiggie, who's also Progressive Girl from a previous quiz.
EYE MASK
In this dark I rest
unready for the light which dawns
day after day,
eager to be shared.
Black silk, shelter me.
I need more of the night before I open
eyes and heart
to illumination. I must still
grow in the dark like a root
not ready, not ready at all.
~ by Denise Levertov
Czeslaw Milosz wrote of this poem - "A slow maturing, long awaited, probably identical with prayer, sometimes called by the mystics 'the night of the soul' can, in modern poetry, take the lay form of a black eye mask."
It works on two levels, in my opinion. One, how the soul is still growing and shaping itself. Two, how the individual is far from ready to rise, remove that dark eye mask, and face the glaring liveliness of the day. Sleep and shelter from the everyday world, we (or at least, I) need so much more of these.
When the husband comments that there isn't much activity on the blog, I know it's time to get some writing done.
Saturday today, and I'm feeling lazy. Very lazy. I have comments to send to a student, two critiques to write, lunch to fix, a paper to write, two stories to complete, a living room floor to clear, books that I desperately want to read...but I just don't want to move.
I sit by my computer, watch movie trailers (P.S. is particularly good. Laura Linney is terrific and Topher Grace is certainly an interesting actor to watch), and read the news.
One of my friends in Singapore is nicknamed Sloth. I think I deserve that title more than he does now. My tennis racket leans forlornly against the wall in my living room. I dream of rock-climbing, but don't do nearly enough arm-strengthening exercises. Not that I would go rock-climbing even if my arms were in form. Where does one go rock-climbing here anyway? And my rock-climbing partner, DSD, is on the other side of the world. Maybe I could go swimming if I finish all this work. Maybe I could peel myself from this desk and start with the messy floor and work my way to the kitchen to fix myself some hearty soup.
Maybes. Life today is filled with maybes. Where am I going? Where will I be one year from now? What will I accomplish two hours from now? A nice lunch and one written critique completed, I hope.
Several deaths this month. Yasser Arafat passes on and CSI gets interrupted for this piece of news. Audiences complain and the producer who okayed the decision gets axed. People care that he died, but not enough to miss out on the ending of that CSI episode.
Elsewhere on this side of the world, Iris Chang, who penned the controversial The Rape of Nanking, takes her own life with a gunshot to her head. She was 36. Reports state she was depressed.
Goh Sin Tub, Singapore writer, dies at age 77 after a stroke. He was the first author I met personally. I was fourteen, in secondary school, and just beginning to get interested in writing short stories. I'd submitted some shoddy work for his visit to the school, but he was very sweet about it, saying he liked what he read and that I should continue to write and read.
They've left their marks in our world, at least. Political history, books, culture. The physical essence of them turns to dust; years into the future, possibly stardust, so goes a song I once heard.
Early. When you're due to introduce an author at a reading, prepare early. Read their work in advance and take notes. I left my introduction for my friend till the last minute, because I kept putting teaching ahead of everything else. The reading was for Friday evening; I began working on Thursday, which ought to have been plenty of time. But being the slow worker that I am, I needed some time to read the work Michelle gave me, the critiques I'd written for her in the past, the bio I got from her, before setting out to write the actual introduction.
On Friday morning, I also had to rush to school for an appointment with Ha Jin, and our meeting was interrupted by a fire drill in the English department. We wound up in Amer's where I offered to buy him a hot drink as he was coughing badly. He turned me down and I bought a hot chocolate since the folks at Amer's probably wouldn't let us hang out without purchasing some beverage at least. Before I knew it, time was up and I had to take him back to the English department. I had to gulp down my drink, which wasn't so good an idea. And I still couldn't finish it anyway. One thing that I got out from the meeting - his real name. And I went on to tell him the story about my family name, or the story my father told me about our ancestor being a tax collector and running away to Hainan Island. I told him it probably wasn't true but I liked the story, and he said that there was probably more truth to it than I imagined.
By Friday afternoon, I was panicking. Introduction still incomplete. The night before, I couldn't stay awake past one, and I dreamed that the organizer of the reading series was calling for me to introduce Michelle. And there I was among the audience, still scribbling incoherently in a notebook. The organizer spotted me and apologized to the audience and requested a five-minute wait while I finished writing. Fifty pairs of eyes lasered me to nothinginess. Oh, the mortification we experience in dreams.
The actual event went far better, thankfully. I did finish writing in time, three hours before the reading. Michelle liked the intro, my peers liked it, and now I can say I'm done with public speaking at readings. I can attend the rest of the series without worrying about a future reading of my own or giving introductions for a long, long while.
The party afterwards was good fun too. I dragged Irene, erstwhile MFA whiz now turned lecturer, to go with me. We drank wine, ate cashew nuts and cheesecake, commiserated about teaching. I was in semi-punk mode with combat boots and people said I have to let that side of me out more often. Interesting. After Irene spilled some red wine on the white carpet, I knew it was time to take off. We cleaned up good, did a quick tour of the pretty house, and then stumbled through some bushes to get to my car. Back to bed and a dreamless sleep this time.
It's been less than a week since my mom has left, and I'm already up to mishaps in the kitchen. I didn't check the holding plate in the microwave oven before setting it to cook some rice. I walked away, not seeing that the plate wasn't revolving, so all the heat and light was focused on one spot of the plastic cooker. It melted horribly.
When I first smelled a strange odour, I thought, hmm, someone's baking cookies? A couple of minutes later, I realized the smell (and by now it had changed to something rather unpleasant) was coming from my own microwave oven. It was smoking. A fair bit of the cooker was left in a puddle of creamy plastic on the plate. I dumped both cooker and the destroyed rice and threw open the windows. How much damage can you do to your lungs if you breathe in the smoke of burnt plastic for several hours? It was a chore chasing out the fumes from my apartment. The smell is still lurking in my kitchen. I rescued Milou and placed her in the safety of my wardrobe; hopefully the air inside was better. I also hope she wasn't expecting cookies.
Leaves
The prisoners of infinite choice
Have built their house
In a field below the wood
And are at peace.
It is autumn, and dead leaves
On their way to the river
Scratch like birds at the windows
Or tick on the road.
Somewhere there is an afterlife
Of dead leaves,
A stadium filled with an infinite
Rustling and sighing.
Somewhere in the heaven
Of lost futures
The lives we might have led
Have found their own fulfilment.
~ by Derek Mahon
I was hunting around for a poem about parting and farewells, since I had a major one this morning. When I came across "Leaves," I thought, this has nothing to do with what I felt at the airport today, but it occured to me that selecting a too-apt poem might be overly sentimental, so I went with my instincts and typed out Irish poet Derek Mahon's "Leaves." Every once in a while, my thoughts turn to those "lost futures." Always good for a story or an essay; always good for remembering the wonderful things in the one "future" that did come to pass.
To my mother: Thank you for being with me these past six weeks. What a joy to be a child again! Milou misses you already. We both do.
Tasks for the week:
1. Write introduction for Michelle's reading.
2. Send revised story to Peter and Eileen for comments.
3. Email Aric to arrange meeting about dicussions in classroom.
4. Write (a lot more than the meagre lines I've been producing).
5. Prepare for conference with big-name writer.
6. Change engine oil.
Writing tip of the week:
Invent an opposite
What is the opposite of a kiss?
What is the opposite of green?
What is the opposite of a train?
What is the opposite of cake?
What is the opposite of a fence?
Now use both the thing and its opposite in a story, poem, or essay.
~ from The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood
Instruction for the day (if not today, then tomorrow; and just for a day, because I'm not sure I can manage this for a week):
Don't check your e-mail today until you've written three pages.
Today is the coldest day so far, I think. We've hit freezing point, so I finally dug out my thickest sweater and bundled up for school.
My mom's leaving tomorrow morning, and I'm doing my best not to think about it. I can still remember what it was like last year when we were at the airport. I'm usually fine on my own, but I've gotten so used to her being around these past five weeks that it'll take a while to adapt to the old routine of coming home and mumbling to the walls. I can mumble to Milou now though, at least.
Of course there're always the pressures of school to distract me.
So Bush is president again. I watched the news for most of Tuesday night and Wednesday morning, not really believing the number of votes appearing on the TV screen. In Ann Arbor, I've been surrounded by Kerry supporters, and the large number of them gave me the impression that Kerry was going to win. On Wednesday and Thursday, I went to school and spoke to a my disappointed friends and colleagues. Most of them described the day after as a day of mourning.
In any case, everyday life carries on. It's getting colder and my mom's elbow is aching. I wish she could stay longer, but perhaps it's better she return to the warm weather soon. We went to Target yesterday where we got her a nice lime green sweater and me some vitamins. I started reading a new book on travel writing, specifically Best American Travel Writing 2000, edited by Bill Bryson. Since I'm taking a travel writing course next semester (we'll be reading Paul Theroux, The Odyssey etc.), I thought it'd be fun to get into the travel spin early.
I love Friday mornings. The weekend is still young and I get to watch TV without feeling guilty. On the news, Cedar Point, famous amusement park in Ohio, now has a large indoor pool which is 83 degrees year-round. The slides and rides make the place a far better deal than the mediocre thrills LK and I had at Singapore's Wet Wet Wild. More on the news - Star Wars Epiosde III: Revenge of the Sith teaser trailer. The trailer will be released today with Pixar's The Incredibles, but TV viewers get to see it on Fox news. Looks very exciting - glimpses of C3PO and R2-D2, Anakin with yellow Sith eyes, Padme looking beautiful as expected (and with the Leia hairdo), sweeping battle scenes. Other movie bits - the sci-fi movie, The Island, set in 2024, is shooting scenes in downtown Detroit today and this weekend. A small part of the city has been altered to resemble Los Angeles. Imagine that.
I think I'll take my mom to see The Incredibles this weekend, and then a nice, luxe dinner at swanky Gratzi down Main Street. She deserves it and a lot more, after all she's had to put with. That would be me.
I used to blog more often. In September, I tried to write something every day. In October, I did what I could. I'm predicting I won't be writing a whole lot in November, unless it's musicology papers and short stories and course syllabi.
My course description for next winter is done, and now I'm working on the syllabus. I got pushed into it as a girl wrote me today, inquiring about course requirements and if I could send her the syllabus. Needless to say, I have no syllabus handy, but I couldn't tell her I'm working on it, from scratch. So I emailed her some requirements from a friend's existing syllabus, the one that I believe I'll model mine after.
Now that I've got the ball rolling, I'm selecting textbooks or anthologies of fiction and poetry. Here are a few I like:
Prose
1. The Vintage Book of Contemporary American Short Stories by Tobias Wolff
2. The Scribner Anthology of Contemporary Short Fiction : Fifty North American American Stories Since 1970 by Michael Martone
3. The Contemporary American Short Story by B. Minh Nguyen and Porter Shreve
Poetry
1. A Book of Luminous Things : An International Anthology of Poetry by Czeslaw Milosz
2. The Discovery of Poetry: A Field Guide to Reading and Writing Poems by Frances Mayes
3. The Making of a Poem: A Norton Anthology of Poetic Forms by Eavan Boland and Mark Strand
I think I've said this before, but one of the greatest perks of being an instructor is access to examination copies. When you love what you're teaching - in my case, writing - you want to use books you love, and to be able to get your hands on those books for free (in fact, some publishes heap them into your arms) is just wonderful.
With some luck, I might be able to keep teaching (and getting free books). It depends on how my teaching goes this semester. I've been learning a lot from my freshman composition course and I'm starting to really enjoy the art of rhetoric. Although I was particularly pleased when I got placed out of freshman writing back in 1997, I now regret not formally learning the specific forms of non-fiction writing that I now teach. My students are a nice bunch, very nice if I were to compare them to my friend Irene's class. I actually think I'll miss them. Someone once observed that through the years, your students are always young; you're the one who ages.
The semester is drawing to a close. Just five and a half more weeks. However, the semester couldn't be complete without my first in-class observation. I invited KT, who is in charge of the teaching program for MFA-ers, to sit in and observe my class. Terribly nervous, of course, but he was good enough to sit and write his notes out of my line of vision. Later, we met and discussed how I fared. Turns out I did better than I'd imagined. Too, he told me not to worry about my being tiny and Asian and foreign. There's no mistaking who's in charge of the classroom, even if I'm the smallest person inside, he added.
Of course, all this is very pleasing to my ears. I'm not sure I make a perfect intstructor, but I'm trying. It's a little heartwarming to think I've moved from Changkat Changi to Michigan in my brief teaching career. I was 19 when I taught secondary 4s in Singapore - and I loved my students then, although I started out being terrified of them. I'm not sure if I ever mentioned this, but last July, just after our wedding and before we flew off to Michigan, LK and I were at a bank opening our first joint account when I noticed our money was being counted by a familiar girl. Sarina was a student in my form class in 1997, the prettiest one actually. She was bright, witty, rather bewildering, and favored blue contact lenses. When I saw her again, she'd put on a little more weight and looked a little older than her 23 years, but I was so pleased she had a job that she liked. She looked happy, and she still remembered me.