A Vast Tick-Tackery of Spirit

Puzzle Pieces

2010-10-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

A blind hiccup of sound

the conceit of a minuscule
gallop at an eardrum
but what you really heard
was a broken bird falling
in a winded dearth, my quiet
gasp of heartache. Walking
now with stones in my pockets
black seedling shale rattling
against fubsy coins and
rosary threads run ragged by
the passing thought of fingertips.

Lately I have found myself slighty obsessed with certain images--crossover patterns that consistently emerge in my writing and artwork. The last few months it has been the imagery of black and white birds. To date two poems, innumerable doodles and one photograph have been devoted to this image, though the ideal version still slides around in my mind. Perhaps it is a compulsion, some need for my mind to purge itself of this mental song and dance. Who knows how many interations must be developed before I can move on? At least its a bit of class and sad romance.

Clean Socks and Storytelling

2010-08-09T15:21:00.000-07:00

This is what I thought: for the most banal even to become an adventure, you must (and this is enough) begin to recount it. This is what fools people: a man is always a teller of tales, he lives surrounded by his stories and the stories of others, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live as if he were telling a story.

Sartre--Nausea

I'm constantly reminded that spectator photography is that of the inevitable slant. Even documentary is mangled under the twisting of our shutters. A particular subject matter becomes important because we believe it so and it speaks with a voice that is eerily similar to our own. There is no end to the invisible narcissism that can be imbued in seemingly factual images. But, then again, maybe that half the point and all the fun. For me, this guy is all about the white socks. Everything else declares an air of world-weary acceptance: scuffed shoes, gnarled cigarette, fingers scarred with guitar callouses. But then there are those socks, brilliant white against all that fogged gray. Those socks are every shiny new promise that one wakes up to in the morning, the one tiny thing we can change that just might change everything.

In real life though, this fellow just silently drops his head as I take the photo, strums on through the flicker of my capture and tells a story only he can hear.

Weather Report in Pulp

2010-08-09T09:33:00.000-07:00

My first ever stop-motion video. These seem to be all the rage lately, and I felt sad to be left out of the whelm of video glories. So, I sat myself down with a sharpie, crayons and some paper and here was the result. The hardest part, I found, was managing to keep the pieces in place while also being able to easily move them about--since I was not working with three-dimensional objects. Ultimately, I affixed the background to my refrigerator and used magnets on the back of the individual pieces. Necessity is certainly the mother of invention!

Once again, I find my love for all things paper and hand drawn reinforced--even if my efforts are ultimately a bit childish. At least we know that the simple things like this are accessible to any one of us. So pick up some crayons and start drawing!

Herve Guibert and Aging

2010-08-08T14:17:00.000-07:00

Aging lovers say to one another: 'Our bodies are growing old together, but for me your body has never changed. Your hair has fallen out so slowly that I didn't notice you were going bald; I forgot your magnificent shock of hair, it will always cover your forehead when I look into your eyes.

They say our eyes never grow old. I see you at every stage of your life at once'...
--Herve Guibert, from Ghost Image (translated by Robert Bonnano)

One of my favorite quotes from Guibert, who I find to be an excellent photographer but even more notably one of the most erudite and passionate writers about photography that I have read to date. Though he died young, he was captivated by age, by the abrupt change from beauty to decrepitude which he witnessed while creating a portrait of his own mother. Photography for him was a way to capture in a concrete way youth that will soon slip from the hands of its current possessor. Of course, the sad bit of this is the fact that these images, at least according to Guibert, will be a source of contention and jealousy later in life. So much so that he writes of these photos, "we despise them so much that we want to torture them, letting the film burn motionless before the bulb." Harsh words it seems. Then again, how is one to know. Perhaps one day I will look back on photos of myself and friends and wonder how it is that time has treated us to so many wrinkles. Will my face become invisible to me through familiarity over the years? Or will I retain a hypersensitivity to every facet and flaw? I suppose that in Guibert's world there can only be regrets in any revisiting of the visual record of my past. But for now, I just keep clicking away. The shutter and lens continue recording, perhaps to be rued later.

First Diana Photos

2009-11-28T15:32:00.000-08:00

From my very first roll shot on my Diana camera. It's one of the most unpredictable processes, but definitely worth it for the odd quirks that sometimes occur.

Some Reassembly Required

2009-08-20T14:19:00.000-07:00

In pondering the intricacies of Proteus' magic, several contingencies have crossed my mind. Granted I really wasn't letting my mind maunder past such traditionally lofty subjects as mythology. Instead I was wondering what it would be like to be a couch. I don't know why I chose such a subject for my inhabiting. Perhaps there is something about the idea of existing merely for the utilization of another that intrigues me. All of one's characteristics would be servile, banal, serviceable. And yet, in solitude, what would you be?

Of course it has been considered before me, and with much greater skill and intelligence, what exactly existence without audience is and how it is experienced. But still, I found myself contemplating how it would feel--to be rounded and plush, caught in permanent stasis, trembling gently with felted skin. Would one, if that term is even acceptable in this instance, have an ability to maintain some sense of the sensory impulses that surround and impale without words, without a sorted and calculated view of the self? For some reason, I feel that would be quite the glorious escape, if only one could manage to ensure its temporariness.

And thus, Proteus. If I could, say, transform myself into a divan, with all of its attendant bulbous propensity. And, if I could fully experience this state as a nonsentient being, would I be able to return to my former shape and consciousness? At first glance, and indeed with any subsequent flickers of the eye, it is apparent that I would not be able to return from the shadows of upholstered bestiality. My very humanity, and with it the ability to distinguish the uniqueness of "couchness", hems me in to the cerebral patterns of my own flesh. Escape can only be made possible by rendering it a diffusion into grey tedium, a totality that can neither be explored or evaded once entered.

So, alas, my dreams of experiencing the netherworld of cushioned and flowered furniture must be put on hold indefinitely. But, at least, I am there in my imagination.

Playing Dress-Up With the New York Times

2008-09-30T11:35:00.001-07:00

Look at the pretty academics, defying all stereotypes of dress and behavior. There are far from stodgy denizens of musty, book lined chambers or dour offices whose piles of paper tilt like skewed cities on desks and shelves. As the New York Times would have it, these professors are stylin' and definitely step outside of what is usually assumed to be the clothing purveyance of the highly educated. At least that is the premise of a recent photo spread featuring professors dressed in highly expensive (thus worthy of our admiration) clothing.

Notice above a distinguished, yet amiable gentleman, clad in the purest of strategic tripe, plaid and bow tied. I must tell you that he actually has a strong resemblance to a linguistics professor that I once studied under, but I have to wonder at the reality of this particular spectacle of a man. Is this actually how he dresses as an everyday occurrence? Primped and prodded by the masters at the New York Times, is this the real man, or merely some sort of recreation that has been tweaked in order to fulfill a creative vision of a photo shoot director?

Generally, I have no problem with the falsification of details and situation that are part and parcel of the fashion shoot. However, the point of this photo spread was to prove that these academics dress well (which of course means stylishly) as opposed to many others in their field, or even just to counter a stereotype. However, the validity of this statement is belied by the fact that none of these professors have chosen the clothes that they wear in this shoot, nor do we see them in their natural environment. They are make believe creatures in falsified worlds, and because of that worth no more than any other model that could pose as an academic. Note the woman to the right. She sits immobile and contrived in a room filled with books that are meant to be read, not posed in front of. As the books are rendered useless in this photo, so is the woman. A highly accomplished woman she is now objectified into oblivion, her work the effluvium of a single sentence that the reader glances over in order to regard her furry wardrobe. Suddenly I don't care if she is brilliant or a dolt, at least she looks "unprofessorial".

In other words, darling New York Times, fashion rules, intelligence drools and you are being faintly ridiculous. Dress these people in their own clothing, sit them among the tasks that they actually perform on a regular basis and admit to the fact that fashion can dwell in another place besides within the circle of big name designers and their sycophantic fans.

Misanthropy on a Friday Afternoon

2008-09-26T14:16:00.000-07:00

Not that long disease, my life, but that long convalescence, my life. The liberal-bourgeois revision, the illusion of improvment, the poison of hope.

Saul Bellow--Herzog

In a book full of quotable and beautiful passages, the one above has long been one of my favorites. Of course the fact that it hinges on a slight misanthropy doesn't hurt either. It brings to my mind this question, however. Why are we ever so intent on improving ourselves, on becoming the better person? Bellow's narrator seems to believe that despite our communal striving we never do attain any enlightenment and that all of this effort perhaps poisons our enjoyment of life.

Is hope a poison? I suppose that hope does indeed taint our understandings of self and the world. Peering into a uncertain future with the idea that someday we or our environment will improve impinges on our vision, darkening the edges of immediacy. But, more than that it implies that the possibility for personal growth actually exists, yet is thwarted. From where have we garnered this piece of psychology? If we are merely gentrified beasts then achieving the standards set by our peers is essentially arbitrary. Becoming more beautiful or witty is merely artifice, physical or social. The other personality traits that many so lust after such as perseverance or patience are merely the result of conditioning. So, really, it is not a work of altering that we work at, it is recreation.

And, what sort of masterpiece are we fashioning? The ideal individual possesses white teeth, the perfect nose, a shiny laugh, wit and fashion, and I suppose a modicum of strategic education. This is what we do; we compartmentalize ourselves into oblivion through our insistence on the value of specific physical or personality traits. Pshh. As though we don't all know that the root of all these things is their monetary component, the belief that we can buy our own social salvation. Humanity has gone from beasts rooting in refuse to beasts roosting in perfume, and both create a stink. In other words, I would contend that the myth of improvement in indeed a myth. We might not ever truly improve ourselves by outside means, but we do by some sort of natural progression. I am more patient this day than I was as a child, but these traits were merely latent, emerging with age not with training. So, yes, perhaps we do become better versions of ourselves as we age, but without the aid of the bean-counters and hawkers.

Shaking My Fists at Tao Lin

2008-09-24T14:42:00.001-07:00

'Eeeee Eee Eeee' has a narrative voice that veers between the outbursts of an angst-ridden pre-adolescent and that of a drunken faux philosopher. His characters possess only a veneer of complexity that is cobbled together from associations with and reactions against commercial icons. Nevertheless, the chimerical situations Lin strews throughout this novel demonstrate a proclivity towards absurdity and surrealism that is a rare and lovely thing.

This was a recent review that I posted on a reader board, nestling it somewhere between the ravings of Tao Lin's rabid fans. Lin's work, like that of Bukowski (my self proclaimed arch-nemesis), delves into the mind of its protagonists in such a way that the work loses all sense of the "literary". The book is more about realism than the beauty of language or ideas, and with a "protagonist" that spends his time fantasizing about viciously rending apart friends and coworkers in a bloody fashion, or sputtering out expletive laced sentences in a drunken, belligerent stupor I kept finding myself wondering why I continued reading. As you can probably tell, I generally loathe fiction that pretends toward an immersion of character or scene. Hunter S. Thompson, probably the king of this attempt with Fear and Loathing, even admits that it was impossible to record and participate in such a scene simultaneously. Indeed, one becomes the spectator of ones own life, a situation that instantly lends imposed narrative and fiction to the scene. It strays from literature into theatre of observation, and I can access that simply by stepping onto the street, or reading a nonfiction work. The fact that something is literature demands that it not ordinary, my favorite aspect of this being that it flings itself at the feet of the gods of verbosity. Thus, it is apt that especially reprehensible to me is the fact that authors use realism to excuse bad writing.

I admit that at times a fascinating idea can rescue a writer who is not so well-endowed with the bosom of language. However, writers such as Lin (and Bukowski) repeatedly frustrate me because they can write, and write extremely well. I once caught myself in tears reading a Bukowski poem, a rare occurrence as I read any author much less one that I mentally contend with on a regular basis. So, why I ask (shaking my fist at the heavens) must he cover over his skills with the effluvium of his status as a drunken, bastard of a writer? Lin, as well, peppers his book with lyrical and wonderful passages of absurdity, such as this, "Let him live in your closet, Sara. I'll wear him like a shirt over my head, like a hat, and his ears can be my real ears". This sentence, in its striking randomness, startled me out of a scowling daze as I read. And Lin has several of these beauties in his novel, but they are consistently strangled by the overwhelming harshness of the surrounding text.

I suppose that I sigh because these authors have such great potential, well, not even potential because they demonstrate an ability already attained. I sigh for the cloaking, for the obsession of the artist over the art, and for the fact that authors so often forget the loveliness that resides just in words themselves. Forget the fog of the scene and the pretension of believing that creating a character automatically results in its worth. Or something.... I now fade out because I cannot write half as well as these authors I have so cruelly lambasted. My musings are as shadowy fists ineffectually pounding at the solid visages of my betters. But still....allow me at least this semblance of substance.

Lester Bangs is a God

2008-09-24T13:18:00.000-07:00

'Tis true, or at least a god among rock writers, nay all writers. He throws together literary and musical references as well as personal musings to create work that feels like wads of crumpled paper--all angles within angles. Never before have I read a work that included Baudelaire, the Velvet Underground, socialism and male genitalia within one paragraph. And, he does so in a coherent and creative way. Compared to him I feel weak, dare I say impotent, in my mangling of language. To employ a metaphor sure to hint at penis envy, I am always aroused by words but unable to produce anything of substance. Bangs, on the other hand, seems to churn out the apt metaphor (a simile being to weak for one such as him) with ease. He is abrasive, jocular, offensive and endearing within a single sentence. I now worship him, and hate him, all at the same time.

Fashion Tips From Grandma

2008-09-12T13:23:00.000-07:00

So, today marks one of the numerous occasions on which I have been complimented on an element of my ensemble (insert the pretention of French pronunication here) by someone clearly over the age of sixty. Usually, this would not bother, as I assume that I am merely one of the less skanky denizens of my social circles. Thus, a compliment by someone of my grandmother's generation translates into something along the lines of "What a nice young lady" or thereabouts, more a statement regarding presentability rather than fashion per se. However, I think I might be wrong on this count, and I say this because of a slightly disturbing incident occurring a few months ago.

While perusing the racks of clothing at a local department store, I passed a sweater of slight interest, so slight that I kept right on walking. After a few moments, with this sweater clinging to the inside of my mind, I returned to examine said garment more closely. Much to my surprise, a white-haired matron was pulling that very sweater from the rack. Of course, this didn't stop me from purchasing the item, and, in fact, I congratulated my consumer twin on her wise decision. Nevertheless, with the rash of elder-initiated compliments growing ever larger I have to wonder...am I turning into a wearer of fashion decrepitude? Maybe fashion really is cyclical, and I am far, far ahead of the curve. Either way, I wouldn't encourage you to mimic my "threads" any time soon.

The Bean-Counting Beast

2008-09-12T08:46:00.000-07:00

This is a crude world of finery and excrement. A proud, lazy civilization that worships its own boorishness...At the edge of doom, beside the last grave of mankind, they will still be counting their paper. Praying over their balance sheets.
Saul Bellow--Herzog

Misanthropy, the purveyance of cranky ghouls like myself, lingers on my mind today. Oscar Wilde once said that America was the only civilization that had gone from barbarism to decadence without civilization in between (or something roughly to that effect). Is this true? Certainly we are a decadent country in general, counting our money and figures as Bellow so eloquently describes. But, what is it that separates civilized/decadent man from feral beast?** At some point, humanity did indeed shift, evolutionarily speaking, to be speaking creatures, fluent in symbolism and other abstract elements. This, then, allowed for the creation of art, cities were formed, and society began in earnest. Social contracting and other tropes that we all take for granted ensure that these communities were, at least initially, formed in order to protect all within their enclaves, bastions holding out against the tide of predators. But, at what point did these predators become other humans?

Today, the grouping of humanity is no longer about the survival of the individual or an evolutionary dictate for strategic violence. Instead, modernity is all about the flourishing of super powers, whether that be of the nation or the socio-economic class. The rich grow richer and all that cliche, but it remains true. But, whatever happened to the concept, that we cling to so closely, that we as advanced humans are responsible for others? We claim, as civilized persons, to possess feelings of amiability toward our fellow man, to have a set of ethics (even morality, that most highly contested and abstract of concepts) that would require us to care for the weak or poor among us. Apparently, however, our advanced psyches only require that we possess these ideas, not to act on them.

Religion, whose most popular proglottidean strains maintain the stance that benevolence is key, routinely spend their time persecuting other branches rather than helping others. Christianity, which claims a leader who lived simply, whose earliest converts pooled resources to help others now pools its resources to build fancy churches and designer wardrobes for its leaders. The pope, in his Vatican palace, really? I would like to see all leaders of any church living in the conditions of the lowest on the earth--the same for presidents. Let's see Bush or any incoming president of these United States, live in the same conditions of the poorest in their country. I am sure that domestic policy would change quite a bit and quite quickly if that were the case.

My point with all this ranting is to question if it is that systems, whether they be political, corporate, or spiritual, are inevitably doomed to rake up power with their fingernails and become an entity essentially divorced from those it includes and excludes? Is this then humanity? Can we equate a political system with the persons who under gird the system, or has it taken on a malevolent life of its own? Perhaps, like Jonathan Swift, I propose that we can hate humanity in general and love it in its particulars. It is indeed difficult to truly hate the person that we meet on the street, and yet I rail with ease against countries and religions, economic and social systems. And, sadly, this is an ineffective dashing of my words, for it is these systems that are too large to change single-handedly. And, if one were to start an organization to "change the world" it would contain the seeds of its own demise, a striving for power that would ultimately undo its first inclinations toward goodness. I suppose, then I will have to continue with my petulant complaints and simply live my own life with as little hypocrisy and power-hungry ambitions possible. While removing myself from the system does little to improve the lot of those afflicted, at least I do not augment. This is my faltering attempt to reconcile myself to my own existence among others, and I am very much not sure that I have succeeded.

**Please, do not argue with my lack of gender non-specific language in this missive. To Old English roots I go, in which mann was a gender neutral noun referring to both sexes...so there, foot stamping and slight scowling face included.

Black Holes and Superiority Complexes

2008-09-11T16:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the grand activation day for the Large Hadron Collider, really just a test, but it still brought to mind my greatest of death ambitions. Is it morbid to have a preferred method of demise? Most likely, however, it has given me great pleasure over the years to contemplate my eventual dispatch by black hole. Now that the world's eyes are trained to the existence of these entities and disaster clouds hang ominously (note cliched writing here!), I find myself doubting my once seemingly illustrious goal. If the entire earth was sucked into a black hole, would I still find it a desirable form of death? I think not. The reason for this is, I suppose, is that to die by black hole would be an entirely novel experience, one not shared by others. Also, it would be an adventure of sorts. I am not sure why I would find myself in the far reaches of space, or why perhaps the smallest of wormholes would open in the cracked sidewalk at my feet, but the idea is an intriguing one, and (of greater internal pride) the possession of such a desire sets me apart. At least, delving deep into my psyche, that is the only reason I can uncover. I am essentially a vain individual, thus, the abhorrence of a universal perishing. Stealing my thunder, scientific catastrophes, don't even dare!

And, abhorrence is not too strong a word for my feelings on the subject. I am quite attached to my odd ideas, the little idiosyncrasies that make my mind my own. I suppose, like Mary, I treasure up these things in my heart (to quote obscure Biblical passages). It is rare that I share in conversation the oddities my synapses create, and to some degree I enjoy the silence of my mouth contrasted with the lively imaginings that go on under the surface. What ifs become secrets and the hop-skip-jump of thoughts takes on the form of a playful conversation. Most of the things I think seem untranslatable and hopelessly random to those with whom I share. The interaction between the parts of my mind is much like that of twins, replete with the finishing of sentences and colliding memories. I just let varying inputs overlap and see what image forms. Spontaneous generation of the mind...or something. And so, I cling to these things as though they make me unique, as though my exterior (whether that seems conservative or derivative to others) conceals a person of great interest, verve if you will. Deep down I know this cannot be true, that each person is equally unique to each other person. But, this doesn't keep me from harboring feelings of individuality. Ah, yes, my ego is ever working to promote the awesome being that is me. So if you're ever in the neighborhood ask me what I'm thinking and I just might start spouting about the need to shout "tally-ho" or what if everyone had accordions for lungs. And, yes, I really have thought about those things.

Happy ramblings, y'all.

The Ideal Man Wears A Scarf

2008-09-10T11:07:00.000-07:00

Men who read, I find are quite a rare breed--similar to the scarf-wearing male, they are elusive and often secretive about their literary endeavors. This is quite a sad state, made even worse by the seeming hordes who claim an addiction to the writing of Bukowski or some other author striving for a drug or alcohol addled meltdown caught on text. One could search for weeks on end without running into a single male who would acknowledge delving between the covers with Sartre or Faulkner (and believe me I have done so!). However, oddly enough, one night, drunk with glory of some recent discovered sentence by Bellow, I might stumble into some god-forsaken coffee shop and discover a small knot of males hunched over steaming cups of caffeine discussing with reckless abandon the merits of Faust's ethics or another obscure topic.

The problem with these encounters, I have found, is that I always acquire a strange timidity when confronted by these delicate creatures. It slips into the space between my shoulderblades until I am hunched over like a schoolgirl, hand on chin staring at the older kids. What lovely enigmas they are! Their shirts are plaid, they peer out at the world through horn-rimmed glasses, and inevitably their faces bear the pointed whispers of hair. Surely, I assume, I could not disrupt the delicate balance of their arguments with my brash enthusiasm for a tangential author or subject. I am all bouncing sentences and effusions of ardor; theirs is all intelligence and hushed musings. And so I am relegated to watch from afar these most sacred of creatures, sighing to myself that I could never match wits with their quiet grace. Of course, I exaggerate this situation a bit, I do actually know several males who read literature of quality and they are quite fabulous in and of themselves. I am afraid I often beleaguer them with quotes and other such missives of refracted love, and they put up with my excitement with admirable levels of patience. But, nevertheless I find myself captivated by the tranquility of the distant intellectual male and I fear that were I ever to break the circle of their conversation all mystery would be dispelled and I would be left with one less sight to intrigue and enamor me. And, don't we all need a few daily wonders to float across our lives?

On Censorship and Other Drivel

2008-09-09T08:35:00.000-07:00

I recently had a conversation about materials the library in Omaha would obtain and then maintain. The woman I talked to argued that the library should not buy books that were liberal in nature due to the fact that "they would not circulate". Ever the petulant rhetorician, I puffed out my lip and claimed that "I would read them". Given the whiny tone in which I delivered this sentence, it didn't seem to make much impact (and rightly so). However, I do wonder, is there a sort of regional censorship that goes into the formation of a library's collection? How much of what is to be found on the shelves is up to the whim of a collection's director or his or her minions?

Libraries should, it seems to me, be the ultimate bastion against censorship. Created as a government institution it should serve the needs of the greater good rather than personal inclination or the demands of the marketplace (essentially an argument for circulation-related purges is one of supply and demand). By maintaining a modicum of fair play between viewpoints, no matter the field, a library offers individuals the ability to create informed opinions or to encounter ideas without agenda. The moment this fulcrum is tilted to either side of the spectrum this opportunity is thwarted, intentionally or not. It seems to me that by only buying materials that will be popular among current readers not only caters to the majority but also prevents any of that majority from switching sides, so to speak. If all I ever find in a library is a conservative viewpoint, most likely I will find my own ideas in that direction reinforced. Eventually, I suppose those ideas and that argument will cease to be a coherent product of reasoning and be that of fortified brainwashing. Both sides of an argument must be present in order for it to be an argument at all; otherwise it is merely propaganda.

The second part of this library conversation (yes, we are nothing if not tedious) was the matter of ridding the library of materials that are old or no longer timely. This was an issue that I grew quite opinionated during my time at grad school, when I found that it was not acceptable to use source material of over ten years age, except for a few choice, canonical texts. Since when, does an intellectual thought lose its ability to enthrall or spark debate simply because it is covered with a thin coat of aged spiderwebs? Even a book that is outdated reveals information about the writer of the book as well as the times in which he or she lived. Of course, this information is between the lines and thus is a bit more difficult to decipher, and I could hardly blame the belaguered masses for not wishing to dirty their hands with textual digging. Okay, yes I can. We are, for the most part, a people who love instant information from sources that require little interpretation or work on the part of the reader. Thus, we want the newest and the best and perhaps in this search for modern ideas forget the process that brought these writers to the most modern point.

Judging scholarship based on age is merely a symptom of a social, political and academic system that values the constant spewing out of new ideas and engagement with current dialogue rather than the simple joy of engaging the mind. I realize that this is quite the abstract sentiment, that ideas, even when held and swirled in the mind of one individual, can have value. However, why must we be so obsessed with output, with the writing of articles and the attending of conferences. These are merely the audiences for a process that is essentially internal. While Sartre might contend that we are nothing without those who watch us, I believe that the innerworkings of the mind count just as much as a few sheets of paper cobbling together the arguments of others (and, of course, a sliver of my own sentiments), especially when these sheets are produced simply to prove my worth in the literary marketplace.

Ooohhkay, so clearly I did a bit of ranting there, and for those of you who have questioned my giving up of literary/professorial ambitions, the main germ of my discontent is in the preceding sentences. While I love literature, and grad school was an amazing experience that sharpened my brain to a degree I never thought possible, I found that the study of literature at the upper levels divurges from the study of texts into the study of others' studies of texts. This approach certainly brings new depths to any book that one reads, but at the same time it is far from the close readings of undergraduate studies, or simply being swept away with the beauty of a few lines. There is no room for the undefined admiration of words; all is production. And, since I am essentially a lazy creature, I claim a great antipathy toward all these practicalities. For now, I suppose I shall just have to flit from subject to subject and confine all of my intelligent writing (if this can be called such) to a forum such as this.