Poem and Section

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

[Today we had class outside. The weather was fine--it was sunny and warm and the trees are covered with flowers. The children were delighted: "We should be a picture in a Georgetown advertisement"; "This is my first time in college to have class outside"; "This is what I thought college would really be like." I'm not going to lie: there was some romantic fulfillment for me too--this is what I thought it would be like to teach. In fact, I really just wanted to light a cigarette for effect.]

We read this poem in conjunction with Hannah Arendt. The kids pointed to the poem's acknowledgment of the human condition--part of the narrator is unchanged by everything outside of him. They pointed to the similarities and differences between action in Arendt and in this poem; for instance, here, while action is central, it is not communal. They brought in Arendt's public/private distinction, maintaining that the narrator must have been well formed in the private sphere in order to assert himself as self-confidently as he did in the public. They discussed how the narrator, as a result of the capability each individual has, even in a totalitarian regime, does not give up on the possibility of action. They even brought Hobbes into dialogue with the poem.

Finally, one student opaquely declared that the poem was "very Catholic--you know how Catholics a fond of capitalizing words?" Another student, who has identified herself as Anglican on several occasions, declared that is not only Catholics who capitalize a lot, but all poets.

Vows this week was remarkably entertaining. Snippets:

She is the kind of woman who ... would, and did, have a tiny apple tattooed discreetly on her lower back because she eats apples all the time; the kind who would, and did, wear sparkly sneakers under an elegant strapless Italian-designed silk and organza wedding gown. [an apple tattoo because she eats apples??!]

They had their first kiss that night — “It was a good kiss, and that’s how I knew,” Mr. McKean said — and soon they were telling white lies when asked how long they had been together. “We were madly in love and we had been together, like, three weeks,” he said. [I approve of being able to tell if you're in love by the quality of the kiss. Also, I love that this article recognizes the thing that couples almost inevitably do--pretend that they've been together, dating or friendship, longer than they have.]

Last March, they went to Tiffany’s to pick out a ring. Mr. McKean figured on proposing later on. Once outside the store, however, Ms. Townsend slipped on the ring and ran with it, laughing. “I said, ‘Maeve! This is the parking lot of the store. This is not what I planned,” Mr. McKean recalled. “She said, ‘Just propose to me now.’ You can’t argue with that logic, so right there in the parking lot I told her I loved her and I wanted her to marry me.” [This is precious: she insisted that he propose immediately. As a woman lacking patience, I completely approve (I mean, insofar as I approve of men and women going together to pick out rings [crinkled up nose]).]

An Internet Town Hall Meeting

All I heard was the title on NPR while I was driving, but this is enough to distress me. What would Tocqueville think? I mean, the internet is fine, but it isn't exactly political participation, either.

On Cooking Problems

Goodness gracious, I forgot to write about my cooking disasters when Graham came at the beginning of the month. Wanting, of course, to impress him and trick him into thinking I'm a domestic goddess, I cooked a lot. He hadn't, before that visit, eaten much that I'd cooked, aside from a couple of things I'd baked.

Well, I am not especially good at pies and bread. Stearns is the one in the family who does bread. No one really does pies (although after hearing this story, my mother baked Graham both whoopie pies and a pie--I'm quite certain that it was only to assert her superiority to me in the kitchen). Of course, apple pie would be Graham's favorite.

The problem with the apple pie started because I don't actually believe in measuring spoons. It seems like, at least, if you're a good cook, you don't need them. On the one hand, I pretend I'm a good cook. On the other, I'm not. All that to say that I tasted the pie crust as I was rolling it out and it tasted very salty. Frankincense confirmed. Instead of throwing it out and starting over, I thought, "I will be clever. I will make another half recipe of pastry with no salt in it; that will dilute the saltiness and I can use what is leftover for those nice pastries with cinnamon sugar in the middle." That was a clever thought. It went wrong when, per usual, I got lazy. I think that rolling a pastry thin is hard, so when I got the recipe and a half of pastry to the size of a pie crust top, I stuck it on. I promptly decided that that was a bad idea, but at this point sugary apples were already stuck to it.

As Ben the Baptist pastor said, "Emily, this is great apple pie, but why is there a biscuit on top?"

I also made bread to go with the Midwestern chicken soup. The bread didn't rise. Of course, I could have left it to rise longer if I had known it hadn't risen. But alas, I thought you'd stick it in the oven and then it would rise like a big cookie. Anyway, Graham was kind and choked some down and called it, "European." It was hard as a rock after one day. Stearns salvaged it the next weekend by turning it into garlic bread.

Monsignor Sokolowski Quotes

From my notes on Aristotle's Ethics (because Sokolowski is such a charming man--he is very tall and big boned and speaks with a kindly smirk, calmly and slowly; he is full of charmingly deprecating and corny remarks that you just don't quite expect):

"If a person is flitting about all the time, you don't think they're a very substantial person."

"He doesn't want to get choppers." (referring to false teeth)

"What we're doing here...[interrupting himself] We have the luxury of being philosophers--we aren't doing anything."

"Something we could call puritanism or depression: this agent has less delight in bodily pleasures than one should have."

"You know, Cyclone--clone of a guy named, 'Cy.'"

"They don't have little angel families; they just get created in their rank and file."

On the problem of televised masses: "These are problems; it is better than having Mongols outside, ready to slaughter us."

"Nietzsche is pietzsche."

On Kant: "That's just part of the sloppy writing here. But it is what it is."

Fabulous Things I Heard on TV

"Let's build a smarter planet." (IBM)

This is problematic in so many ways: a) it is full of techno-optimism; b) you can't just remake Earth (that doesn't make any sense--unless IBM wants to build another planet and stick us on it [I actually have no doubt that this is the logical end of computers]); c) Earth cannot be smart--and our environmental problems are not a result of the planet being dumb.

On Meeting Warren

The first time that Warren and I really hung out, by which I mean decided to be friends, was the night the last paper of my semester was due. It was late in December and I was tired. I decided to have a beer (or several?) while editing my last paper. Either way, my editing pace slowed. I had Stearns from afar and Myrrh from the same room take parts to edit, because I wasn't going to be done on time. Still, even with all that help, I turned the paper in a couple of hours late.

Myrhh: "Just tell the professor that this is actually wicked early because you're sending it from Hawaii."

And that, for some odd reason (those beers), was precisely what I did:

I’m in Hawaii right now, so this is wicked early…

Merry Christmas!

Emily

Rant: On Roofs

Since like 10 a.m., they've been working on our freaking roof. I don't know why people assume that everyone will be awake and not mind repetitive, loud, annoying banging and thumping noises. For crying out loud, I mind it even when I'm awake. And, despite my brand new self-appointed life coach's advice, I am not awake before noon if it can be helped.

In Defense of Playing Basketball

(Even when you aren't good.)

What Makes Man Different from Animals.9

"But this elevation of the implicit into self-conscious knowledge introduces a tremendous difference. It is the infinite difference which, for example, separates man from animals. Man is an animal, but even in his animal functions, he is not confined to the implicit, as the animal is; he becomes conscious of them, recognizes them, and lifts them, as, for instance, the process of digestion, into self-conscious science. In this way man breaks the barrier of his implicit and immediate character, so that precisely because he knows that he is an animal, he ceases to be an animal and attains knowledge of himself as spirit."

--Hegel in his Aesthetics

The Tridge

I only just this weekend discovered the existence of the very intriguing Tridge of Midland, Michigan (Graham's hometown). Evidently it crosses the intersection of two rivers. This is infinitely confusing to me, as Graham has drawn me no pictures of this. I have no idea how this works, but am relieved that it is only for pedestrians. I'm not going to lie, I would like a tridge. Alternately, I would like to have a picture of myself on the Tridge.

The Good Things in Life

Percy's house for cigarettes and coffee and Yeats and a little bit of studying is always delightful.

Highlights include:

Percy: "Sometimes it seems like English is not your first language." (This directly after I confused drive and reverse. I don't think that I hit the other car, which is really more than I can say for Graham...)

Also, a limerick (about my grandmother, whose name is Lorraine):

There once was a girl named Lorraine
Who had thoughts inside of her brain.
She told them, "Come out!
And stop rattling about,
Or I'm sure I'll go stark raving sane!"

Unrelatedly: I really like Woody Allen movies, at least the ones I've seen so far, because he basically walks around talking--chatting without stopping. This is clearly a delightful way to be. Evidently I've been emulating Woody Allen from a young age.

Congrats, Warren!

On Academics' Occasional Lack of Social Grace

Five graduate students (including me) from my esteemed university were having lunch with a professor from the other Catholic university today. She was very encouraging. She said that she could tell from her interactions with us that we were going to do well for ourselves: "You're picking good topics, you have good professors, you're smart, you're socially adjusted."

The last one is really great.

Best Intro to Political Theory Class Ever

So I have to get in book orders for my (purported) summer class, which means I have to figure out what I want to spend a month of my summer reading and thinking about. This is what I've come up with so far:

Plato's Symposium
Aristotle's Ethics
Augustine's Confessions
Rousseau's Emile (parts) and The Second Discourse
essays by Montaigne
Burke's Reflections on the Revolution
essays by Oakeshott

Of course with lots of poetry thrown in...

Fabulous Things I Heard on TV (Thanks to Graham)

"This is bringing out the bazookas in the war on recession."

Do we really have to call everything a war? Can't we just call wars wars?

Recitation

In our discussion about Marx today, making the head of a pin as part of an assembly line turned into putting caps on pens.

Dinner Party.6

Goodness gracious, I've been remiss in throwing dinner parties. This is poor. Clearly.

For the occasion of Lawrence's visit from Connecticut (on the way to London) and Sayers and Mr. Sayers's trek from the great city of Philadelphia in order to meet Graham, we had a dinner party. Lawrence called before hand to make sure that I had no before dinner drinks (I had none) in order to bring them. He called also in order to remind me that although it was lent, it was a feast day (I had been aware of this, but he needed to be sure he would be eating meat--I remember that he wasn't such a big fan of the vegetarian lasagna I made on a Friday visit of his some time ago).

Mr. Sayers surveyed the house upon arrival. I was impressed with his thoroughness (he even examined one of the cupboards).

Stearns and Ilana, thankfully, were on hand to help. Cooking with my sisters is a rare thing and a great pleasure (especially because they did so much of the work--yes I invite my sisters to visit and then shamelessly exile them to the kitchen!). Stearns made foccacia, which went over quite well (except when identified by Lawrence as a "pizza thing," but that was before he'd tried it).

From my end, I inadvertently turned my mother's delicious tortellini soup into ravioli soup. Just before I served dinner, Stearns said, "Emily, you know those are ravioli's right?" And then it hit me that when I was in the grocery store trying to figure out why there were so many different types of tortellinis and finally settling on the most cost-effective ones and being vaguely confused as to why some were little spheres and others were donut shaped, that I was just looking at all of the frozen pastas.

The roast came out fine, I'd say. Although there was the same amount as we ate left-over. My mother would be proud at this amount of food. The asparagus was, shall we say, well done. The whoopie pie filling was not whipped (although Stearns says this can be blamed on our dying beaters). This is all I can think of to report. My mother gave me grief for not letting Ilana go to sleep before 2 a.m. (who told her that?!). Myrrh was unfortunately called away by "more important business." Sadly, no one broke any chairs and our bathroom door is fixed (Ilana: "Is it safe to shut the bathroom door?").

This explains so much about Graham's powers of reasoning and logic.

Student Papers

This is a great excuse:

I'm sorry I couldn't come to office hours today. My excuse is literally that I thought I lost my books (Locke and Aristotle) and then spent a ridiculous amount of time digging them out from behind my bed, where they fell the night before.

I love it.

My Amish Heritage

As Myrrh says, I am so cutting edge. (I am dying to know how they made the icing curl! Also, I think that heart-shaped whoopie pies are a dumb idea. Pumpkin whoopie pies, on the other hand, are something this article has no idea about...[must find that recipe])

And His Beard Is Way Too Long

Today in recitation, we were discussing Marx and the negation of the negation. The children were rather frustrated with Marx. With 15 minutes left in class, I said, "Would you like to read a poem?"

Their eyes lit up, and one of the students said, "I think that the poems are going to be my favorite part of the class."

Then one of the students said exasperatedly, "I feel like Marx would want to even negate poetry!"

To Warren, Part 2

Well, I couldn't quite breath. I did manage to keep breathing and drive home to consult with my roommates.

That evening, I was chatting with Frankincense. I asked her to look for this clump of white hairs. After rooting around like a monkey in my hair (sorry, dear! I just had the imagine of you looking for bugs...), she proclaimed me white-hair free. Of course, I didn't entirely believe her (it's like when Myrrh tells me that I don't have a fever--I'm never entirely convinced that she's right). So I went over to her mirror and continued to look for those white hairs.

Frankincense then began explaining about how Myrrh wasn't feeling well, and she, too, wasn't feeling well. Frankincense: "Although I'm not entirely sure I'm sick--you know, maybe I just think I am because Myrrh is. Do you know that feeling of being paranoid about something because someone else is...?"

Me: "Actually, yes. This very moment, I am digging through my hair for a white hair that doesn't exist because Percy has one." (Turns out Frankincense's paranoia is more accurate than mine is--she actually was sick, but is better now.)

Weird, Weird World, of Which I'm Not Sure That I Approve

I am currently gchatting one of my students in order to answer some of her questions about her paper. It is better than emailing, I think, but worse than talking on the phone or being in person. I really don't understand why people are afraid of being on the phone.

To Warren (Who Said My Blog Was Boring and That I Need to Write about People More)

Not too long ago, I was with Percy (possibly Sunday brunch or IHOP, it's unclear). He told me that only the day before he'd discovered his first white hair.

Now I have always wanted white hair. In fact, if my hair doesn't turn white by the time I'm 35 or so (which isn't likely since I guess hair comes from the mother's side [??] and my mother is only just now getting gray hairs and she's 50, and my grandmother is graying at the level my father is, so about a generation behind), I imagine I'll dye it. I always loved Miss Lavender in Anne of Green Gables. Her hair turned prematurely white and she was beautiful. In order to have white hair properly, I think one must wear a lot of bright colors, a lot of green and purple and pink, possibly all together, if no one stops you.

However, I am not actually, at this moment, ready for white hair.

Anyway, the next day after I spoke with Percy, I was in the parking lot of the Goodwill (after finding a fabulous madras tie that I couldn't buy because I don't know anyone who would wear it). All of a sudden, I glanced in the rear view mirror, the sun caught my hair (it was setting--the sun, not my hair)--I saw grey. I had to pull over immediately in order to start rooting through my hair. I rooted and saw about a clump of white hair.

This blog post will be continued later in order to keep my readers happy. Because my readers are mostly not happy these days and grumble, and I, evidently, respond to such grumbles.

Poor!

I keep trying to log into facebook, only to discover that I have temporarily deactivated my account because I just couldn't handle the pace that facebook changes things.

I'm sorry that I don't blog more. You see, I have friends (granted, it is almost exclusively friends who read my blog). The deal is: for every blog post that Stearns and Ilana write, I will write one. Also, this might possibly apply to any blog-worthy emails I receive.