Job hunting

So I've been job hunting for the last week--not intensively (because if it had been intensively, I'd have been done in about a day), but pretty seriously. Now I'm done. I haven't found a job, not even close, but I've put in applications with every place I could find that's hiring...and several that aren't hiring, but that might have high turn over on account of being fast food.

Oddly enough, though I do need a job for summer--desperately!--I feel relieved. The pressure's off. I can't get a job that doesn't exist, right? So why worry about it? Okay, I am worried about the money issue, but I figure I can leach off of Vaun for three months until school starts again and reactivate one of my credit cards to pick up the slack. Thank God I've gotten my payments down so much since moving to Pullman!

But today I'm free to start writing again, for school or personal pleasure even. I even woke up thinking about some research questions and some sources I need to look at (possible reading list candidates?) for my dissertation. For example, since I'm writing about why / how Woolf and others used the classics, I need to start thinking about why / how others writers before her used them or didn't use them. I'm especially thinking about the classical revival of the 18th century, the so-called moderns vs. ancients debate. What light can that shed on the use of the classics by the 20th century modernists?

Damn. Mom just walked in and asked if I applied at this one place where I didn't apply because she saw hiring signs on the bus! Crap. Okay, I had a few minutes of undivided thought. Typical. Oh, well, money would be really nice, too. I'm off to go apply now.

ETA: No luck with that job possibility: they were looking for more technically proficient people.

P.S. Tried to have a conversation with my mom. It's so stressful talking to someone who doesn't let you finish a thought or even a sentence a lot of the time.

Secrets

Do you ever write a blog and then realize you've just spent the last several paragraphs feeling sorry for yourself and so delete it?

Moments of healing

Have you experienced moments of healing in the natural world in the way Terry Tempest Williams does with the birds and the Great Salt Lake in Refuge? If so, explain.

I've struggled with depression all my life, so the healing or hurting I've received from nature has generally related to that. Oh, I love birds and flowers and all that (the sublime, the picturesque, the beautiful, you name it, I love it all, no matter how wild or manicured), but mainly it's the sun that rules my life. You'd think that Vegas would have kept me cheerful--after all, the sun shines almost all the time--and yet I remember so many gloomy days and nights. How odd, too, that my one perfect day, the one day full of sunshine and love, happened the year I lived in Colorado. You can bet I hold onto that day--fiercely! (...as armor against all the other fucked up days that came after and before.)

But there are moments, moments where the world seems to pause, and those contain the most powerful impressions. I remember lying across a chair and footstool (body on footstool, butt on chair, legs hanging over the arms of the chair) before a huge living room window. Drapes stand open, my eyes droop, and I feel like I'm bathing in bliss. I doze and wake and doze. Voices murmur in the next room, water's running somewhere down the hall, cars drive by outside, but it's all so distant. For a few brief moments, I'm lying in a cocoon of warmth and safety. And then someone enters the room or a cloud passes in front of the sun...who knows? The moment ends; darkness creeps in again.

Another moment: I step outside an icy-cold casino (wherein flashing lights camouflage grubby carpets and pathetic desperation) and the heat envelops me, caressing joints aching from eight hours scrubbing toilets and floors, vacuuming, and making beds. I can barely see or hear, the sun's so bright and the clanking cave I've just fled so dark. For the briefest instant, before the crowds, car exhaust, and city noise break through the momentary haze, the heat actually seems to sear away the filth and smoke that have permeated my clothes and hair and skin. Then, of course, the world closes in again as I'm jostled by the crowd and startled from my moment. Only five minutes to catch the next bus.

Sometimes, though, even darkness heals. I'm lonely, always so lonely, but I walk out into the night because it's the only way I can escape the noise and bitterness and judgments. The stars don't judge. Wounded feelings are soothed by a balmy breeze. It's so silent out it seems like God is listening. My heart quiets, my throbbing head begins to clear, I breathe in, I breathe out, the buzzing abandons my ears. I hear the rustling of trees in the wind. A bird chirps. My shoes scuff the sidewalk. My spine crackles as a straighten my back and fill my lungs. And breathe out again. Nighttime embraces.

Legislating Romanticism

Is there a problem with legislating romanticism?

I don't know if lawmakers drew directly on Carson or not or even if they moved from her to the Romantics that we've studied in this class, but the language within The Wilderness Act of 1964 certainly evokes the ideas we've been exploring throughout the semester. Ideas of "solitude" and a lack of "confinement"--of nature allowed free reign but also protected for the "scientific, educational, scenic, or historical value" it has for man--all this reminds me of the various readings and class discussions investigating the connection that man and nature share. Do I think it's problematic to legislate romanticism? Maybe that's simply the only alternative, the only way we can make positive changes--by appealing to people's imaginative and emotional responses. The language in this act is itself almost poetic: "forces of nature," "the imprint of man's work substantially unnoticeable," even the alliterations of "practicable its preservation": language like this speaks to us beyond the conscious level, touching the place that longs for meaning beyond mere words of practicality. Clearly the composers of this piece were trying to inspire a sense of investment on the part of the public. Seems reasonable to me. We protect that which belongs to us and defend the thing we love. Now here are the poets on one hand, and the legislators on the other, telling us, "Nature belongs to us--to all of us. It has value: historical, educational, scientific. It is part of our heritage. We love it." I guess I'm a lot more taken in by that than "It's good for you. It's your duty."

thoreau's view

In your own words, what is Thoreau's view on man's relationship with nature? Can we see this philosophy in any of the Romantic poetry we've read in the class so far?

Sometimes I just wish I could connect with these writers. Thoreau to me is particularly difficult (though not quite as hard as Emerson). Yeah, I know his other works are different, but it's hard to take it when a writer is so insensitive to the limitations that he himself isn't subject to. Still, I guess I should give the guy some credit; he wasn't rich or anything--quite the opposite from what we heard in class--but I'm so not impressed by his ability to take daily four-hour walks. I saw the English Romantics as pretty out of touch with reality, but they've got nothing on the Americans, as far as I can tell.

But, please, forgive me. I'm currently dealing with real life, which, quite frankly, sucks.

So. Thoreau.

I guess his view of man's relationship with nature is pretty good compared to Emerson's. Though there is this myth building and the implications of potential exploitation, I don't think he really planned it out that way. I think he honestly does see unspoiled nature as important in and of itself, but he expresses his appreciation in terms of conquest because that's the language and mentality he's familiar with.

His is a more engaged approach to nature than that of the British Romantics, from what I can tell. In America, it's apparently all about getting your hands dirty. The Brits, on the other hand, seem more detached in their appreciation and perhaps more self-conscious of their invasion when they do interact, as in the nutting poem. Thoreau seems to take it as given that he belongs there; the British poets appear less sure.

I don't know. That's really all I can say right now.

part 2 of The Walk Blog

(See below for Part 1)

I don't know about vision or sound or language. The hardest part of this assignment for me was just trying to get out of my own head and observe the world around me. I've been taking a lot of walks lately, not so much to enjoy nature, though that's a bonus, but to get away from home. I feel a lot of frustration and so the silence out there helps me become more settled inside. But it generally takes the entire walk before the inner rant subsides.

How relaxed Cardiff sounds, letting her mind wander this way and that, letting sights and sounds take her from one moment to the next--present to past, day to night. How surprised I was to know that she actually took the time to edit in sneezes so that her art more easily speaks to us, drags us in, makes us believe in her--it all sounded so natural.

How enraptured is Emerson, with his disembodied eyes, becoming one with nature. For him, it's all about beauty and communion. He says, "The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon" (14).

But for me...gah! It's all just a blur. Neither sights nor sounds really stick. The health of the mind demands a reprieve from both, so I'm halfway home again before I even start to really see or hear. And then...and then it kind of hits me. The absence of sound, the expanded horizon. Suddenly, I remember once again that there's something in this world beyond me and my petty little resentments. Emerson has an explanation for this one perhaps: "To the body and mind which have been cramped by noxious work or company, nature is medicinal and restores their tone" (14). He says it's the sight of nature in all her beauty. I don't know. For me, I think it's just a matter of being alone with my dog and simply getting out of my apartment, feeling the wind and smelling the open air.

The Walk Blog

It begins with noise and the cessation of noise.

Touch the back of your tongue to the roof of your mouth, as if you're going to make the sound a "k" makes. Now form your lips to make an "o" sound. Then blow.

Softly and then louder and then softly and then louder...

and so on. It should have a sort of guttural harshness to it.

This is the wind blowing

[The voice fades to memory, even as the irritation lingers on.]

The wind ruffles your hair. The leaves crunch underfoot. [She's going to expect us to rake 'em before they've even finished falling from the tree. I'm just waiting for the snide comments to begin.] Take a deep breath; put everything out of your mind.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

See, now isn't that better? [We'll pretend it is, or the weight of this awful life will become too darn much to bear.]

But you've only just stepped out the front door, and Ricky's tugging at the leash. Best get a move on.

So down the steps--one, two--and along the sidewalk and then up the neighbors' drive. [The stack of pizza boxes and other assorted trash has expanded even more just since yesterday. It could be worse, I suppose. At least the cooler weather alleviates the stench. Bastards.]

Now you're heading up the block and Ricky's stopping to pee about every five feet, but it feels too nice out to hurry anyway. They'll be time enough for that later.

But go ahead and cross the street. At least that'll give you a moment or two of uninterrupted locomotion. [Nope, he's stopped again. Ah, there he comes. God knows what he's sniffing at in the middle of the street.]

Oh, fine, let's just skip all this. You were bored anyway, no point in lying.

So you're at the edge of town, heading away from the high school and up the hill behind. The wind's blowing so hard that your hair's standing straight up and all other sound is silenced.

This is the sound of silence--it feels heavy on the ears. [In case you wondered, it sometimes helps to yawn.]

About the silence, though: it isn't really, is it? After all, you can still hear Ricky panting, gasping for breath even as he drags you up the hill. And you can hear your heart pounding in your skull. But how do you describe the sound of blood throbbing through the brain?

Now you’re starting to gasp for breath a bit yourself.

Ahhhh, finally! You've reached the top. And the hills surrounding Pullman stretch out on all sides. [Here I have to edit out the trees that are in the way, blocking my view to the south.] You're confronted with a dozen shades of brown. [Would it sound better to say a million? How about a symphony of chocolate? There to the left, a milk chocolate mound; to the right, a bittersweet confection; down in front, a malted swirl. (No, fat women shouldn't mention food. It just proves what everyone already knows.) Oh, hell, how much editing can I do before everything I say becomes a lie? And would it be worth it? Probably the lie wouldn't be anymore interesting than the truth.] The tractors have already made their rounds. And they are rounds...and ovals...and swirls [I've still got candy on the brain, it seems.] Whatever you want to call 'em, the hills around Pullman abhor a straight line.

But focus in. Look at your feet. Okay, not that close. But if you let your eyes wander from the fields to the little patch of weeds right in front of you and then allow your ears to follow, you might notice the slither of wind through the tall, fading grass. Stalk rasping against stalk, multiplied by…well, a lot.

Actually, to be honest, it’s a little drab.

It's not always so dull and lifeless out here, of course; only a month or two ago, the fields were golden and before that a sea of emerald. [I remember the first time I saw this view. It was early summer and the fields were a millio…er, a dozen shades of green. And the smell…. Oh, so hard to describe, but the exact opposite of Vegas with all its asphalt and sand.]

Today it smells like dirt, but such an oddly clean smelling dirt. And the wind is whipping your hair this way and that. Take a deep breath as your heart slows. Everything seems so empty here. [The fields, the sky, even my heart. How different from the almost transcendent views in Shelley’s “Mont Blanc” or Vegas’ Red Rock canyon. Here about the only thing that takes my breath away is dragging my fat ass up yet another one of Pullman’s many hills.] Look around, take in the view, how peaceful it is…away from that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism.

Oh, but Ricky’s pulling you on. [I don’t imagine he misses Vegas or the cement so hot it burnt his paws that one time and made him limp for a week. We never took him out at midday during the summer again.]

Now you’re back among the houses. Not the kind of houses you’ve ever had the privilege to live in, but in another few years when the dissertation’s complete…who knows? You suppose this is what they mean by “middle class,” isn’t it?

This is the sound of a sigh.

[Why I torment myself this way is beyond me. By the time I can afford one of these houses, my kids’ll all be raised, and I’ll be all alone. Then that cramped little apartment with too many people and too much criticism will look pretty good.]

But don’t dawdle. You’ve been gone almost an hour already and you’ve still got to post that Walk Blog and read the book for the paper due in TV’s class and revise the RomEc paper [For God’s sake, you’re a Ph.D. student: have a little backbone, take a chance!] and grade the papers for Beatrice and comment on the drafts for your own class and…. [Oh, fuck, will it ever end?] And why doesn’t someone give that poor dog some love?!

oOOOoooooOOOOoooOOOOOOOOOOooooooo [This is the sound of a dog howling—no, not Ricky. But it reminds me of the mournful sound he makes when a siren sounds close by. I remember in Vegas there were always sirens night and day. And police helicopters overhead. Check to see if the door’s locked, Vaun. Is the door locked? Are you sure the door…yeah, I know, you’re sure. I just worry.]

Now you’re heading up the hill back toward the high school, the one the leads you to the front. Stop to let that car pass and then cross over to the left side of the street. It looks like the sunflower has finally died. You’re reminded of an old man standing there, chin to chest, head bowed in despair, body broken under the weight of the world. [“Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction, the weight the weight we carry is love”…or something like that. Where’s a copy of Ginsberg when I need him?] And the sorrow of the sight carries you to the water tower. And then it’s down the hill and back around the block, and just one more. But you’ve almost walked by your own house. [How different it looks with the golden tree in front that used to be green.] Ricky's pulling you up the steps—one, two.

And then you’re home.