Oreo - and two particularly revelant comic strips for your visual pleasure.

If I may indulge myself for a moment, a Keats poem - about cats:
Cat! Who hast past thy Grand Climacteric, How many mice and Rats hast in thy days Destroy'd - how many tit bits stolen? Gaze With those bright languid segments green and prick Those velvet ears - but pr'ythee do not stick Thy latent talons in me - and upraise Thy gentle mew - and tell me all thy frays Of Fish and Mice, and Rats and tender chick. Nay look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists - For all the wheezy Asthma, -and for all Thy tail's tip is nicked off - and though the fists Of many a maid have given thee many a maul, Still is that fur as soft as when the lists In youth thou enter'dst on glass- bottled wall.

Granted, this poem does not go into the Keatsian canon as one of the greatest of all time and is in fact an epistolary poem, not meant for general consumption. That said, I chose it because the cat in this poem is the perfect example of the rough-n-tumble, scrappy, lovable, mysterious, capricious, creature I'm spending a moment on: Oreo.

She was J's cat for ten or eleven years, and since we have married had spent her time lazing with my in-laws. She was black ("black like a thousand midnights black," if we must have a Reno moment) and - well, not sleek, but more to love, right? She had a purr like a subwoofer, claws that kneaded everything within range, and preferred to sleep propped up against one of her peoples. She was omnipresent in the bathroom for showers, toothbrushing, and anything that involved the bathroom heater being on. (One time, I mistook her for a doorstop, and accidentally opened the door into her several times before realizing. She never complained).

Sadly, Oreo passed away today. And I wanted to take a moment and honor her on the blog as a great example of catness, and as one more reminder that a) a lot of the times animals are better than most people, and b) sometimes I think they exist to teach us the compassion, humor, and mercy we might not learn otherwise.

You were awesome, Oreo. May the Great Kitty Beyond be full of many bathroom heaters, concrete floors to roll on, and all the treats you can handle.

* * * * *

Now, on a lighter note, here is a comic strip I have discovered of late called Piled Higher and Deeper - a strip that chronicles the life of Ph.D. candidates and grad students as they claw their way to their degree. I present two for your perusal, as they represent, with no exaggeration, two experiences I have actually had:

The above strip is not even a joke. Seriously. I have vivid memories of waiting literally for hours outside office doors for one stupid signature.


The comic above is a brief summation of my entire thesis experience.


And you know what? I have more to say about school, and academics, and the Pre-Raphaelites and incest, but I'll save it for now.

Bye, kiddies.

Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen.

Last night was my final MBA class. Our group received our Biofuel paper back from the professor, and, on the fine document, he wrote that he would personally look for a national conference in which the paper would fit b/c he said it was that good. It’s been awhile since I’ve had my academic ego inflated even a tad bit, so that was a nice gesture. Granted, it was a group project, so I can’t take all the credit as one individual in particular provided exceptionally useful information (he works in the oil industry).

And I turned in my take home exam for HRM. My last duty as a grad student: sell back my Legal Environment book for $20. Why not the HRM book? I purchased a paperback international version (that shouldn’t be sold in the U.S.) for cheap online. Save now or save later.

* * *

While still not finalized, I believe I’m taking this upcoming Monday off and heading to Athens w/ B. I can play a round of golf (or two) and meet some of her friends for dinner. The flexibility of my job is gratifying: so long as I have my work done, my boss is generally okay with letting me off; of course, it helps he’s a fellow golfer and takes off frequently.

* * *

Creeping closer and closer to revision weekend. I’ll wear a bib in case I vomit over my old drafts.

* * *

According to Forklift, OH, I’m Jason S. Fraley. That darn S. just moves around wherever it pleases. Whore of a letter, I say. Still immensely pleased to be in the journal.

* * *

I still have that $75 Amazon gift certificate I mentioned awhile back. Since I have quite a backlog of reading, I’m leaning toward buying a handful of CDs. Somewhere, B and her iPod are convulsing.

* * *

I read why our president says. I weep. I see all the ’08 candidates. I weep.

Anyone care to start a local revolution?

-j

I Can Read

I’m very pleased with myself: I started reading a book I started over Spring Break. I forget the exact title, but it involves some combination Marx, economic papers of 1844, and the Communist Manifesto (which I’ve read several times). The economic papers are interesting, and my objective is to read these papers, the Manifesto again, and then start into Baudrillard’s early economic writing, the books before he acid tripped his way into another dimension. I plan to sneak in some novels as well just to ease the dry reading. And I need to finish Minima Moralia, too, as I cannot generally start new books without finishing any outstanding projects.

One thing I have noticed about Marx’s economic papers is how much things have changed. The chapter on renting and landlords, while correct at its very base, is just completely non-applicable. True, maybe just updating the lexicon would help tremendously, but the examples / support he uses makes me furrow my brow (which, as B would note, is not necessarily an uncommon occurrence). That’s why I like Baudrillard’s early stuff – he applies Marx in a very pomo way that, imo, is a must in post-industrial societies.

* * *

The above reading schedule can only occur if B retrieves my copy of Simulation and Simulacra from Marshall. She has refused to do so thus far. Everyone join in a chorus of holding her responsible for my general level of stupidity.

* * *

Finished second in the golf scramble. Won some money. Enough to pay for the next scramble.

* * *

I’ve never had more trouble finishing a take-home test in my life. I had to turn down a round of golf with a friend tonight b/c I need to finish that test and take care of a few things around the house. How lame is that?

* * *

At least for another eight months or so, tax hours have been cast into hell once more.

* * *

Kinda dry today, gang. Hopefully, with a little stimulation, I’ll be moist with the honey of wit and wisdom soon. Feel free to help.

-j

First thing I want to do is congratulate Daya on his recent good news. He knows what I mean. My gifts to him:

"Memories of Paradise"

And, of course, some Pez:

I can hear the profanity from here. And I didn't even mess up the homonyms.


* * *

I apologize for the lack of entries this week. My boss has been out of the office the entire week, so I’ve been forced to keep things afloat by myself. Of course I’ve succeeded, but that means I have less time to piddle.

* * *

Yes, piddle makes me sound like I’m 80. That’s okay b/c I am at heart (and hairline).

* * *

One more MBA class, and I’m through with my formal business education forever. Yes, there will be certifications more than likely, but the only inane professor I’ll have to deal with will be myself. And even though I loathe myself some days, I loathe myself much less than others. That’s called self-esteem.

B & I are going to my parents this weekend. I’m playing in a golf scramble, and we’re celebrating the above MBA graduation. No, I’m not walking in the ceremony. Rather than having a separate graduation ceremony for all Masters students the day before the main graduation ceremony like last year, they’re having Masters students walk with their undergraduate counterparts according to school on the main graduation day. I can’t begin to describe how stupid and even insulting this is for Masters students who deserve a little recognition of their own. But, as luck would have it, I am scheduled to golf that day as well.

* * *

I’ve just about received all open submissions back to me in one form or another. So I declare next weekend (after the golf scramble) Great Revisionist Weekend. I’ll rewrite some history while I’m at it – just like an English major.

Thank you for dropping by, patriots.

-j

I Hate the Blogger Font Size Button b/c It Never Works

By definition, small and medium cannot be the same size. Otherwise, all bras would be labeled "bra" instead of [insert letter of the alphabet that most fulfills your fantasy]. If a bra's contents do not excite you, my apologies. I'm two posts away from blogger jihad.

* * *

Originally, this little nectar grove of cyberspace was supposed to have more of a literary bent, and I’m determined to follow through on that mission. Unfortunately, I cannot blame the deviation on anything noteworthy: just classes and associated projects. Longer tax season hours, two nights of classes a week, and two-three additional nights of homework / reading, made me treasure whatever free moments I could spare. Which means mindless entertainment like basketball or computer gaming. While warmer weather will certainly encourage more golf outings, that’s a tad more relaxing than career-enhancing (seriously) than HRM. So after the upcoming weekend, expect to see more blog posts related to literature, poetry, and theoretical crap that only dorks like myself, B, and Daya can appreciate.

* * *

I do have one poetry related question though: Why is Mark Irwin so popular? For his popularity, his work seems to be missing that essential ingredient that makes me take notice. I’m not crying generic, and he is definitely a talented poet, but his poems just seem unremarkable.

* * *

If you like good music, you owe it to yourself to check out the following bands (I provided myspace accounts for your listening pleasure where I could):

FGFC820
And One
Panzer AG
Derma-Tek

Don't tell me you're going to listen. Go listen, and then tell me how sorry you are for not listening sooner. And then shower me with accolades.

* * *

I desperately miss being in an active intellectual / literary community. Most of Marshall is akin to a post-apocalyptic wasteland of Abercrombie & Fitch zombies, though the English department seemed to be a dim bastion of promise. (Says quite a bit about my MBA, I know.) I’m very envious of B in that regard as I miss the classroom catfights / discussions and just having the sense that I wasn’t the only well-read individual in a 100 mile radius. Wait, that can’t be true with Wal-Mart’s cornucopia of books . . . Heck, OU even has a golf course on campus.

* * *

Hippiecore slut was the best term I’ve heard since Nintendocore (Horse the Band).

-j

Stupid Hippies

Happy Earth Day!

Today, retarded hippies around the globe can celebrate all their brainless and uneconomical ideas to end world pollution. Related to this, one of B’s classmates, who Daya said should have been miscarried, sent around an email / petition stating that all coal mining should be halted. Granted, if we lived in a Utopia, we could all use our smiley face solar panels to capture the sun’s energy and power our Candyland-esque society. But this, sadly, is not the case. As soon as someone can explain to me we’ll replace all the jobs and energy created by the coal industry, I’ll listen. Because, unfortunately, even if we farm the entirety of North America, we’ll only meet 12% of our gasoline demand and 6% of our diesel demand. Hmmm, now hippies may not mind going without cars or other vital industries, but I’m partial to them (and bathing). And considering ethanol is questionably better pollution wise than fossil fuels – and this is REALLY questionable when considering clean coal – I just don’t buy the arguments of stupid hippies (and the Democrats who fall into that camp. As much as I like you, Mr. Gore, you’re wrong on quite a bit, not because you’re paid to be or anything).

Now, I’m not some cold-hearted capitalist – everyone who reads this blog should know better – but I don’t believe in wasting billions of dollars in subsidies on biofuels that won’t make a dent in our energy needs, can’t be competitive on their own, and/or don’t reduce GHG emissions by any great measure. Yes, the government has a moral obligation to support biofuels because of their potential environmental benefits as well as their ability to replace exhaustible resources, but ethanol and biodiesel probably aren’t the answers. Yes, there are biofuels under development that are far superior to ethanol and biodiesel, but don’t tell the farm lobby.

Geeze, look at what these Earth Day hippies cause me to write. And no apologies if you’re a hippie.

* * *

Acceptance from The Akros Review came in my inbox. Yay!

* * *

For the first weekend in awhile, most of my efforts will be going toward relaxation. I haven’t written a poem in almost two months, but I’m still holding out until all of my schoolwork is officially done. Probably sometime next week.

* * *

Not much else at the moment. More insight, wit, and overall genius later.

-j

Although My Return Was Not Foretold

First off, I am alive, which I’m sure is a relief to all four of you that read this blog. And B is doing excellent as well. Unfortunately, we’ve simply been overwhelmed with school / work lately, and it’s been difficult to find the time / motivation to blog. And, a week before Spring Break, B told me that I couldn’t write any poetry for two weeks (b/c I was supposedly very foul about my writing), and given that time off, I just never got back into the habit. But with the urging of Daya, I hope to begin posting regularly again.

* * *

Being just a few years removed from staying in a dorm and attending classes regularly, the VT events struck a chord with me. As I’m sure the case is at most schools, Concord would have been woefully under-prepared had such an event occurred. There would have been no escape from the dorms or from most classrooms because of the way they were constructed. Plus, both B and I know a few people from that area, and while we’re not sure if they’re still attending VT, it does make the issue a little more “real.”

But that’s bothering me more than anything at the moment – aside from the obvious fact that some nut-job decided to kill 32 people (he doesn’t count) – is the media coverage. The grieving isn’t and can’t possibly be authentic: I can’t imagine having to suffer through such a tragedy with cameras and Matt Lauer around every corner. While some details have come out about the shooter’s motives, the media acted earlier as if the event were all the more horrendous b/c the killer hadn’t left a note. Something about the killer’s silence made things more ominous according to our beloved media. If the shooter didn’t have a voice, how could these events have possibly happened? Of course they’re wrong, but that’s nothing new. What’s true is that the killings themselves were the only authentic / real event that occurred that day, and now with the arrival of the media, authentic / real grieving probably won’t be able to occur for vast amounts of the student / faculty populace. Yeah, I know this sound very Baudrillard, but his words seem apt at the moment. It's all a spectacle.

* * *

I haven’t been able to do much, if any, pleasure reading thanks to class demands. B bought me Pynchon’s newest (and it will be my first of his), a book by Vonnegut, and a collection of Benjamin essays for my birthday. Plus a space empire video game for my dorky side. I’m looking forward to reading all, though most of all the Pynchon who I’ve read great things about.

Of course, I’ve bought a few poetry journals here and there: Lungfull, Denver Quarterly (congrats to LT for placing a poem in there), and Fence just recently. I received contributor copies for The Eleventh Muse and Forklift, OH as well. Both volumes are superbly done.

I’ve had a little good news on the poetry front: 42opus, Relief: A Quarterly Christian Expression, Kulture Vulture, and The Sierra-Nevada College Review have all accepted some work in my absence. There have been some kind notes too, most notably from jubilat. Of course, there have probably been double / triple the rejections, but those are the odds I suppose. The good thing about not submitting anything for the past two or three months is that I’m getting everything back and can revise accordingly. I’m thinking about sending a few actual paper submissions once school ends (for good) this May. I’m looking forward to seeing where Palsy Aria actually stands stylistically and how significantly I’ll revise the poems that have been returned to me time after time. I do want to get started soon, though, as there are a few publications whose reading period ends mid-May.

* * *

B and I are trying to decide where to take a little vacation. Right now, Charlottesville is holding our interest (no, not b/c of you Rach). There’s a goth club nearby as well as a Shakespeare theater over which B is drooling. It’s supposed to be a replicate of the Globe Theater in Britain. Hopefully Charlottesville, being a college town and all, would have something of interest other than Rorty.

* * *

Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film For Theaters was freakin’ awesome as Carl might say. The opening sequence where the members of Mastodon are animated as a pretzel, nachos, etc. was one of the funnier bits I can remember. The whole movie is fantastic if you’re an ATHF fan.

* * *

Legal Environment final tonight. Better sneak in some studying while work is quiet. Have I mentioned that group work should be outlawed forever?

Love to all my peeps,

-j

It is I

Lately, and B can attest to this quite clearly, I’ve become exceptionally discontented (or foul if you must) with my writing. Not only is this due to a string of rejections (I’m looking at you, Rattle and In Posse!), but I also don’t feel like I’m making substantial progress in my writing or that I’ve even veered away from experimental territory into needless obscurity and mediocrity. As someone ill-versed in poetics in general, I’m finding it almost impossible to identify where I’m falling short, though, like the Supreme Court and pornography, I know it when I see it.

My poetry’s setting has been niggling at my recently. Many of my successful poems, those I felt prized the most even before they were published (and some that haven’t been published yet), seem to successfully remove themselves from being pinned down to one scene. On the other hand, many of my unsuccessful attempts seem to mire themselves (notice the active voice there?) in these same dreary, gray worlds that are pretty formless and don’t provide much of a canvas for words. B always says it reminds her of foggy Indiana, and I have to agree: post-apocalypse without the inconvenience of apocalypse.

The biggest difference seems to be in making the setting transient, allowing it to shift from object to object, reference to reference rather than forcing them to conform to some setting (except when I’m writing for a consistent setting, which isn’t usually the case). True, I do like all of my poems to make some conceptual arc, but a narrative arc per se isn’t my thing. All of this leads me to believe that many of my Palsy Aria poems, as well as many recent efforts, have failed to avoid this pitfall, have become stagnant because of the dominant setting rather than allowing the connections between images / references to develop organically. I guess, at this stage, it’s worth noting that I’m probably referencing a different type of setting than you’re traditional they were in a verdant field with big trees everywhere type thing.

I’ve also been upset with my poetry’s language. More specifically, their overabundance of connective / transitional material (it works for college papers) and lack of snappy, unconventional movement. B says I’m making the transitions / connections painstaking. (It IS nice to have an honest wife-editor.) It seems like when I strive for a particular tone or voice, I often include too much of the former, making the poem’s presentation pedantic and, overall, unbearable, and I don’t focus on keeping things moving. This is odd, of course, since I previously had an affair with off-kilter grammar, sentence fragments, and other abrupt forms that eliminated such problems, though left some poems lacking in ease of understanding. For whatever reason, I strayed from using these devices, perhaps trying to develop a more narrative tone; however, I’m thinking about purposefully returning to them and attempting to expand within the forms in which I’m most effective, which would provide me with a more useful experience. My inner-most fear (I’ll post my fantasy later) is stagnating, and whenever B says “you’ve done a poem like that before,” I wet myself .

But between school and work, I’ve nary had a chance to seriously consider anything referenced above – I’m hoping to seriously focus on some writing this week to see what comes of it. I did revise a couple poems that had made their rejection rounds, and B said their presentation was much better, though she did prefer the earlier, more out-there forms, but I’m all about content. FWIW, I am mercilessly conquering civilizations on Civ IV when my brain needs a minute to hobble forward.

I haven’t done any reading lately unless you count several HRM articles on pay secrecy and law textbook chapters; I’d like to finish Minima Moralia before I head to Myrtle Beach on spring break, which is about 1 ½ weeks away. I’ll be immensely pleased when my MBA education is over. Maybe I received a superlative education at my undergrad institution – in fact, I think I did – but this whole experience has been underwhelming. But letters are letters, you know?

I’m sure everyone will be envious that I’m attending a webcast on the fixed income market for 2007 here in a few minutes. It’s exciting stuff; I should post a picture of Alan Greenspan or Ben Bernanke to show you how exciting it actually is. Zombie exciting!

That’s about all for now. Hopefully something interesting and worthwhile next post.

-j

....the pain, the pain, the PAIN of being a college professor.

Today is the last day of classes this quarter at school and, as such, I am using today to conference with my students about their final research papers and their portfolios for the quarter.

A tour-de-force, no? This is the culmination of however-many-weeks of my teaching, exhortations, lessons, and activities. This is the time when they stand on the literary stage and make themselves known. This is the moment. This is the best they're going to be this quarter. I await genius.

....only to have one of my students wander in with a portfolio, one segment of which was to be full of freewrites (free writes) labeled: Free Wrights.

If a Romantic-scholar-cum-professor-cum-theorist cries when she is alone in her office and no one is there to hear it, does she really make a sound?

Oh, the happies.

"You may assume that it is impossible to love a nonhuman semiotic ghost. But think twice, and you will also understand that it is our increasing commitment to high-tech media that enables us to find sexuality not only in humans but in nonhuman agents created from software. ....sound queer? But in the wake of Internet revolution, it is not ideology but high technology that has revolutionized the existing concept of sexuality, making it far more exotic."

- Takayuki Tatsumi, on a discussion of William Gibson's Idoru

I get to write a paper on a virtual doll-person. I get to write a paper on Idoru. I get to redefine kitsch, give the theoretical middle finger to Adorno, Greenberg, and McDonald, and then reread American imperialist culture through the lens of a cyberpunk novel. Oh, the intellectual happies.

Also - my school is #1 in the country for illegal music downloads, and while punishing the offenders has nevertheless refused to name names to the RIAA. It's like McCarthyism all over again, and my university is the last lil' socialist holdout. Love it.

And J, you can't be Brangelina's new baby. Your name would have to be Kumquat, or Didgeridoo, and you would have to come from an underprivileged, war-torn country. Which is fine. I'd miss you if you weren't around.

- b -

Me, Me, Me

There’s always the discussion of poetics in blogdom, and I try to follow the discussion since I have no formal (or informal) background in poetry. I probably couldn’t name one or two characteristics of most poetic schools – Avant, Post-Avant, L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E, New Sincerity, or plain ol’ free verse, much less anything to do with formal poetry (can you say tin ear?) – so trying to define my poetics is like trying to remove my own kidney with Operation’s plastic tweezers. There are probably elements of surrealism and “experimentalism” in most of my writing, and while the subject matter is generally serious, I hope the sarcasm and humor isn’t lost on readers. And I always try to use an organic form with each piece. That’s about as close to an objective description of my poetics as possible. Woefully inadequate, I know. While my knowledge of poetics is severely lacking, I honestly don’t believe my writing fits into any one camp, at least based on my observations. My publication history points to that a little (as unimpressive as it is) since I’ve had luck in publications that seemingly have contrasting, or at least distinctly different, tastes.

Two thumbs down from Tarpaulin Sky on my latest submission. When I first began writing poetry in college (most of the poetry isn’t remotely indicative of what I write now), I submitted to many publications like Tarpaulin Sky numerous times without the slightest idea of its aesthetic leanings. So it was little wonder my hopeless imitations of Linda Pastan (who I still enjoy, btw) and other writers of a similar ilk were failing miserably at getting accepted. One, the writing was poor / beginner-ish at best, and, two, I was oblivious to a journal’s editorial tastes. What this extended tangent means: now that my writing is (marginally) better and more in line with the aesthetics of many journals that I frequently submitted to in the past, I wonder if the editors see my name, laugh, and trip over themselves with the form rejection letter. Paranoia, I know.

And I'm not saying any of this as a big middle finger to the poetic community; some of it borders on embarrassing. I desperately need a poetics primer so I could at least have a solid reason for dismissing the whole conversation. And the old warning not to publish too quickly is all too true.

I haven’t had a free second to read Minima Moralia this week, and this weekend is equally as full: I have an HRM assignment to complete as well as a Legal Environment midterm. In between, I’ll be bombarding myself with Civ IV to unwind or coaxing a poem out of hiding. B will also be busy writing two papers this weekend, so we’ll be a big bundle of happiness.

Oh, Brangelina have decided to adopt me. Excitement abounds. Sorry B.

Much love,

-j

Why I Have Earned A Sticker Today

Things I did by my big-girl self:

1. Visited the library's special archives collection, leafed gently through a Charles' Dickens Bleak House part issue, communicated for 20 minutes with a young Nigerian man about what pages I wanted copied, then copied those for a class of 18.

2. Tried a cashew chicken wrap, which tasted like wet garbage.

3. Yelled at the ridiculously expensive vending machine for sucking away the Dr. Pepper money I put in it.

4. Taught a class of 20 students who stared at me as though they did not realize they were, indeed, in college.

5. Explained to a student that yes, turning in all your stuff late will inevitably affect your participation grade. (His succinct argument? "But...I did it. Just late.")

6. Realized with ten minutes left to go before my presentation that my officemate had accidentally absconded with my copies. Found a line at the copier. Prayed, did a small rain dance, and fell on the mercy of the lady in front of me so that I was able to make copies.

7. Did a superlative presentation on sanctioning construction, the subordination of image to text, and the perceived infallibility of writing in BH.

8. Fought off the Migraine from Satan's Own Personal Store of Surprises.

9. Made intelligent comments about anarchism, scientific Marxism, and literature without my head exploding.

10. Drove an hour and forty minutes home to the first food I'd seen (at 9 pm) since lunch.

I want a sticker. Right now.

- b -

Fun, Fun, Fun

I'm trying to figure out how to spend a $75 Amazon gift card. I love tons o' ideas, but any suggestions would obviously be appreciated.

I’m getting ready to leave for my HRM class tonight. I love it like the plague.

Anyway, some quick pics / links b/c what fun is an extended rant on HRM?

Fun Music:

Fun Radio Station:


Fun Movie (I hope):


Peace,

-j

The Indifferent Spectator

Just finished a marvelous book, Victorian Literature and the Victorian Visual Imagination, for a seminar book review. The book itself is a collection of 15 essays based around visuality and literature in the Victorian period, nicely done on its own, but one of the essays tackled a particular idea I find intriguing: the idea of sanctioning constructions.

In the Victorian era film was just beginning to take off as a medium. Photography was in its birth pangs. And a thousand tiny gadgets (think: kaleidoscope) were being born to sort of capture various sorts of "photographs-in-motion," to represent optical illusions, and to constantly remind Victorian readers/viewers of this new sort of reality they were in.

Optical illusions, particularly, were challenging the notion of "seeing is believing" because they taught the Victorian's that vision was flawed and could be unreliable. As a result, a constant awareness of the Victorian idea of self-as-spectator sort of emerged - an awareness that "yes, I am watching this thing happen, I am disengaged, and can be objective about it."

"Sanctioning constructions," then, are things that remind the viewer, "Hey! You're watching this! You're not a part of it!" The construction might be as simple as a pair of binoculars (a tool through which to see).

I think I'd like to argue in my seminar paper that the narrator serves as a sort of literary "sanctioning construction," stepping out every so often to remind the reader that they are effectively a "spectator" of the text. The essay I read in the book argues that constructions foster indifference; I'm inclined to wonder how that might translate over to The Woman in White or even Bleak House.

That said, I be tired of this quarter. I like theory sometimes (and certain types of theory always), and I enjoy Victorian lit, but I'm starting to get pangs for Keats and Shelley. I miss them. I miss Romantic literature. I miss the Rousseau sort of pastoral freedom of it all. I miss poems, period.

I think I'm getting end-of-quarter drag. A presentation this week (on serialized issues of Bleak House), a 12-15 page paper on sanctioning constructions, and then a 20-30 page paper on mid-high-low Japanese avant-garde culture and kitsch as a reimagination of the cultural aesthetic binary.

Geh.

I want it to be over.

- b-

Hey, Let's Live Forever

Reno 911! was as excellent as promised. Although I have no further need to see Lt. Dangle in a thong, I did discover that your mother is a ukulele.

My (albeit vague) prediction regarding the ending of The Idea of Culture was pretty correct. Rather than providing a rigorous philosophical system, Eagleton instead focuses on discussing the problem at hand, developing a common culture in this case. He asserts that, due to the growing influence of production and value-exchange, the personal sphere / private life as been enveloped in economics; as a result, activities no longer have simply a moral or humanistic value. What Eagleton advances is that once the activities that are common to us all are removed from the economic field, we’ll become more capable of developing a common culture. While he’s not necessarily advocating something a priori to humans, he does agree that there are some activities common to all humans – the ability to feel pleasure/pain (Rorty), our relationship to the environment, etc. If these activities are commodified as culture, then there’s little likelihood of humans recognizing the similarities between themselves: affording culture or recognizing the merits of another’s culture is problematic in this instance.

Eagleton makes a few other interesting observations vis-à-vis T.S. Eliot. Although he eschews Eliot’s elitist tendencies, he notes that, like any good elitist, Eliot has populist leanings. High and low culture are not necessarily different types of culture; the high / low distinction rests on a person’s ability to take something away from a cultural phenomena. As Eliot noted, some of his readers may catch his allusions toward the Iliad, others may just have gut reactions to his work. (It is worth noting that Eliot mentions the latter are more important to him.)

I started Minima Moralia by Adorno last night, and, so far, it’s a pretty good book (all 30 pages that I’ve read). The bite-sized philosophical segments are very interesting as, like Nietzsche, Adorno wanders the philosophical landscape, offering his concise, often biting commentary in short bursts. I’ve already noticed how his aesthetic philosophy forms the foundation for many contemporary thinkers.

The new Canary is out, and I picked up a copy. They may not love me, but I still love them. Once again, a wonderful diversity of writers. Is it me, or is John Ashberry in vogue again?

And don’t listen to Rach.

Cheers,

-j

See This Movie or You Hate America. Communist.

Go see this movie or I’ll beat you with your own shoe:

* * *

Hopefully, I’ll come back with a couple new poetry journals tonight. Generally, the local independent bookstore, which is right beside the move theater, carries a good selection / variety of poetry journals, anywhere from Poetry to Rattle to Fulcurm to the Denver Quarterly. There’s only one local journal since Huntington is anti-literacy it seems. (Seriously, the news blurbs on the WSAZ website – our local TV station – must be written by middle-schoolers. They’re awful). Granted, the selection is always a bit light on the “experimental” side, but it’s the best place this side of Columbus or Cincinnati to buy your poetry in-store. Their actual selection of poetry books, however, leaves much to be desired. I’ve only bought Angle of Yaw from there; otherwise, it’s standard fare.

One thing you’ll notice is that I don’t subscribe to poetry publications as a general rule. For two reasons: A) I don’t mind paying a few extra bucks to support the publication, and B) I hate, hate, hate when I receive “special issues”. All fiction issues or issues devoted to one theme, one poet, etc. generally don’t flip my switch. So rather than take the chance of only receiving two or three good issues of a zine when I paid for four, I’ll buy / order them individually. Yes, this may make me narrow once again, but I have plenty of fiction I enjoy reading – and I do occasionally find a piece of fiction in journals that catches my eye – away from poetry. One man can only read so much.

* * *

I’ve been informed that Daya is a big Stanley Fish fan. Good thing I gave him a glowing review in a previous post. So let it be known that I was referring to fish sticks, not Stanley Fish. Haddock to be exact.

Happy Friday!

Happy Friday, everybody!
"Tonight...you."

- b -

Create A Commie.

....enough said, really.

Click here.

- b -

In Defense of Low Culture

First, for kicks: my most recent paper proposal (for my seminar on aesthetics and politics):

In The Culture Industry, Theodor Adorno posits the idea that the accoutrements of popular culture – including entertainments such as film and certain kinds of literature – in reality lull the masses into a state of passivity, making them oblivious to their own labor-mandated circumstances and difficult economic situations. This mass-produced culture, Adorno and Horkheimer argue, poses a certain danger to the ‘high’ cultural arts.
In this paper, I intend to tackle the question: what happens when mass-produced culture becomes ‘high’ culture? Or, more specifically, what happens when the culture industry spawns what Takayuki Tatsumi calls “the perverse aesthetics of bad taste?” I believe that, contrary to what Adorno and Horkheimer might consider the death of ‘high’ culture, the reintroduction of ‘low culture,’ or perhaps the conscious reconfiguration of it as the avant-garde, might in fact collapse the aesthetic standard set by the culture industry or at least change the paradigm in which the standard is created.
To this end, I intend to rely on several Eastern theorists and scholars, including Tatsumi and Susan J. Napier,to examine the so-called rise of the avant-pop movement—full-blown in many Eastern cultures, particularly Japan, and rapidly growing in America—and what the rise of such a movement might imply for the concept of the ‘high’ culture, low culture, and the economic circumstances from which both arise.

I agree with most of j's comments regarding Eagleton, Rorty, and aesthetics, although I must admit myself to be more in the Eagleton camp, and here's why. It isn't that Eagleton's a spurned lover. It's that Rorty, in his "here, let me pass you a mint julep, because i'm an intellectual - liberal ironist - and we, well we are of a special breed, aren't we? let's laugh gently at the hijinks of the unintellectual kiddies" sort of way manages to really, really irk in the craw of people who don't at all feel that way or like that sort of attitude.

I have a prof who refers to Rorty as "Papa Rorty," because at the end of the day there's a lot of Rorty that's Freudian in nature. "Ignore logic," Rorty says, "because it too is just a vocabulary, and we're poeticizing the Enlightenment. So never you mind if the logic seems circular, because that doesn't matter - we'll all end up in circles anyway. At the end of things, our subconscious is guiding a lot of what goes on."

...in treating aesthetics and culture in this post I was also going to deal with my novel-writing, as genre fiction is often seen as a form of "low culture" and I have a plethora of issues with that; however, I think I'll leave that post for another day.

In the meantime, for your edification, click here for your fun Youtube video of the day: George Washington.

He's got a wig for a wig and a brain for his heart.
He'll kick you apart.

- b -

My Problems with Stuff that Doesn't Matter

Last night was one of those rare occasions where B discussed the happenings in her novel, which she’s apparently rewriting from scratch. She’s essentially beaten the life from this text for the greater part of two years, and it finally seems like, at least conceptually, she’s making some headway. While I wouldn’t normally blog about such a development, what brought a smile to my face was that she managed to include Nietzsche’s slave morality and some small Rortian tidbits in her description. So, philosophically speaking, she’s developed a good framework, and she has always been good with character development. I have high hopes for being a golf / poet husband by the time I’m 30.

I’ve almost finished with The Idea of Culture by Terry Eagleton (sadly, I won’t be able to finish before Thursday because of classes). He’s done an excellent job of outlining the evolution of culture – culture as civilization, culture as something aristocratic, and culture as certain productions or activities. But, as it seems is always the case with Eagleton, I’m able to articulate my (dis)likes of him quite clearly, especially when compared with other theorists.

The third distinction given above seems increasingly dubious for two reasons. One, culture as an activity is increasingly being re-assimilated into culture as something aristocratic of privileged. Check out the prices at your local theater house and you’ll see what I mean – how often can you afford to have a good vantage point. Moreover, do you have the resources (time, money, etc.) to pursue a culturally-enhanced life? Second, in such a seemingly transaesthetic culture (B’s been talking to me about this, though she hasn’t used the term transaesthetic) where almost every facet of production, politics, and the economy is aestheticized to some degree, it’s increasingly difficult to point to one activity as culturally superior to another. Is Shakespeare more important than cinema? Not necessarily – the films by David Lynch or Stanley Kubrick are certainly important cultural guideposts. And it’s increasingly difficult to identify the appropriate criteria on which to judge culture relevance or superiority. Granted, I still think Of Mice and Men is superior to Epic Movie (without having seen it) or Tom and Jerry in many regards, but how do I make this judgment and are there still redeeming features of Epic Movie or Tom and Jerry that lift them into important cultural status? Or is everything just apart of the collapsing high vs. low culture dichotomy, which is B’s stance.

There’s an interesting chapter on culture ways where he polemics that Western culture is becoming stagnant and uninspired without a political / spiritual / culture ideal, some metaphysical goal or object of desire. This statement in and of itself isn’t startling or original – Baudrillard has been doing this for decades (sometimes literally repeating himself for decades) – but he brings it into perspective quite nicely by comparing Western culture with fundamentalist Muslim cultures where everything gravitates toward spiritual culture. The major difference, according to Eagleton, is that culture’s energy, its central focus that generates such energy. Almost off-handedly, he notes that ecological concern has almost become a legitimate universal principle ala religion or capitalism. While Eagleton doesn’t explicitly advocate a return to increased spirituality or Enlightenment ideals, anyone familiar with Eagelton understands his modernist leanings and amusement with all things pomo.

But I’m getting the most amusement out of his number of Rorty references. It’s almost as if he’s a spurned lover. Yes, anyone familiar with postmodernism knows Rorty: the liberal ironist, the man who insists there’s no one correct discourse or way of living, the man that undermines any attempts to posit evaluative criteria, the man who quietly glosses over that his philosophy is a purely Western creation based on Western ideals and ideally situated for the privileged University of Virginia professor lifestyle. Eagleton makes no small effort to repeatedly point out these issues with Rorty’s philosophy as if no other pomo philosopher has these leanings. I haven’t read every Eagleton work, so maybe he reserves a book or two for Foucault, Lyotard, and the gang. It certainly seems as if there’s a white guy feud going on between the two though. I’ll need to purchase a new book by Rorty to keep dibs on the tabloid-ness. Nothing like two well-to-do white guys abstractly beating up on one another. My conceptualization of Enlightenment culture undermines your outdated metanarrative! Your mother sure liked my metanarrative!

My final major interest with the book is an underlying contradiction in his section discussing nature vs. culture, i.e. what shapes humans. The popular pomo stance is that humans are purely cultural beings, completely malleable according to their surroundings. Think Foucault. Eagleton, in his modernist suit, argues otherwise, positing that there is something essentially human in our ability to feel pain or our aversion to death (nature). I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for such existential, evaluative criteria, but it sure seems to grate against his anti-essentialist leanings, essentialism in this context meaning that you can define humanity or history by one idea or theme (think classical Marxism). To me, modernism and essentialism, in many respects, went together hand in glove, but perhaps I missed a distinction that he made between the two. Either way, he gives a big nuh-uh to those who visualize humans as cultures with skin.

Like I said, I haven’t finished the last chapter, but I’m pretty sure that he’ll advocate some modernist criteria that unifies rather than fragments. I’d like to see something work, but Eagleton isn’t an analytic or technical writer so, more than likely, he’ll propose a system and leave its development to others. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing as focusing too much on the technical issues often obscures the central themes.

Sorry for waving my philosophic phallus about like that. Next time, I’ll post a warning and bring wet naps for all. But isn't it more clear than ever that this blog, for me, is a bitter outlet for my 8 to 5 life? Golf / poetry husband by 30 -- remember that!

-j