Skykus

Flying airtran from Denver to Atlanta, I discovered that all airtran flights have wi-fi, which is great, but not free. You can, however, get free access to twitter through some special thing. Anyway, I posted a few comments on that flight, but on the way from Atlanta to Chicago. I decided the moment called for something more... interesting? Anyway, I wrote a series of haikus through twitter to the world below. So, I give to you "The Twitter Haiku Sequence from 30,000 feet" ...or umm, "Seven Skykus!"

1.

thirty thousand feet

Airtran, what could beat two seats?

one not-broken seat

2.

a long novel begs

but my attention is short

and twitter is #

3.

i'm higher than clouds.

sounds illegal but isn't.

jurisdiction stuff.

4.

what is cooler than

thirty thousand foot haikus?

refrigerators

5.

ode to a brown shirt

not this one, the other, says:

“refrigerator”

6.

just an hour in

and my haiku jokes all end:

refrigerator

7.

battery dying

signing off and thinking “land”

while descent begins

For those that are interested, the landing was one of the worst I've experienced. I hate being a couple hundred feet off the ground for a little too long. It always makes me think something is going on. Looking out the window I keep thinking, we're very close to the ground and non of this looks airport-y. Also, planes should not bank shortly before landing. I think rudders were created for that.

Obama and [p/c]en[ce/ts]

A few weeks ago, I was talking about a class I took right before graduating college. It was called “The American Autobiography” and, for some reason, the name of one of the texts had slipped my mind. Franklin’s autobiography, a slave narrative, Susanna Kaysen’s Girl, Interrupted, Alison Bechdel’s Fun Home, and what? The text I had forgotten was Barack Obama’s Dreams from My Father. It was probably because I didn’t finish it. I remember getting up to his college years and losing some of my interest, but other things in my life distracted me and I graduated, returning the borrowed copy to a friend. Now, this really has nothing to do with Barack Obama, but the point when I lost some interest remains important to me. I started to care a little bit less when he got to college because, suddenly, the book wasn’t about me anymore.

Assuming a myriad of perspectives on that last comment, I could guess that it could be interpreted by one person as a comment on literature: that we always relate ourselves most strongly to the child or adolescent character. The twentieth-century canon supports that observation with success of The Catcher in the Rye and To Kill a Mockingbird. Someone else might claim that to relate your own childhood to the childhood account of a US president is the most arrogant reading you could ever unconsciously produce. That may or may not be true. I can’t imagine it would be a compelling book if readers were unable to relate to Obama’s childhood to their own.

The narrative of his childhood and adolescence has a particular resonance for people who lived away from their "home country" as kids. At the heart of his narrated self is an individual who is pervasively aware of otherness. Thinking about that, I realized that a large part of why I like him is because he understands more about difference and commonality than most people. When the generalized public is referred to as "folks" in just about every clip of presidential speechifying, I feel betrayed because the sensitivity to otherness appears to be contradicted by a unifying rhetorical move that reeks of purely political motives. However, if I give politics the benefit of the doubt for a moment, talking about the “folk” doesn’t have to be a bad thing. The unifying power of that rhetoric doesn't necessitate a homogeneous society, nor does it have to deny the rich diversity that Obama has celebrated.

I don’t really have a final point, but I’m wondering if maybe individualism and collectivism are not separable ideas. That sounds very collectivist doesn’t it?

2-6 day project

Before classes started, there were a few things I wanted to do with my apartment. The TV was sitting on a part of a shoe-rack (pictured below and fake workbench) and it was partially obstructed by wire-shelving that just didn't look right. Anyway, I found a cheap TV stand that helped me make the space work, but I couldn't find any shelves that I liked. Classes were going to start on Tuesday and, last Friday, I decided I didn't like the various shelves at thrift stores, etc. So, with some vaguely remembered wood-working experience, I decided building a bookshelf would be a good project to take on for a couple days before I buried myself in books for the semester. I was glad at the chance to build something with my hands and design the shelves however I wanted. I also really thought it would only take 2 days, maybe 3.

So, after mentally planning the design as I looked at the Home Depot 2x4's, I bought 8 lengths of 2x4 (each 8ft long) and some MDF board as backing. Next, I decided to buy a handsaw: cheaper and less messy than a power-saw, but a poor choice.

This is my project at 3pm on Friday:

(Where else does one complete a messy project in an apartment than the kitchen? Plastic floors are easy to clean.)
You can already see some progress in the background, but the handsaw made for slow work. My handsaw skills were also less accurate then I would have liked, but I kept going (with extremely frequent breaks due to arm pain) and, after 62 cuts, I finished all the sawing at 6pm on Saturday:

...and began the next stage of construction:

Work was interrupted on Sunday by water seeping into my apartment. Tons of thawing snow that have formed 20ft icicles can be problematic. I had pots out to catch the water and my blinds fell out of the waterlogged drywall.
Returning to work late on Sunday and continuing through Monday, I used about 120 wood screws and had to think of some pretty ingenious ways of using the blue clamps to hold it all still while I drilled away. Eventually, I finished the frame and put the MDF backing on at 7pm on Monday:

 The shelves were finally finished! ...sort of:

[just under 4ft tall]
With some stain/varnish combo that took about 5 hours to apply (because of all the little cracks and weird problems of using basic 2x4's to make furniture), I completed my project and am much happier with my living space. Technically, with the stain/varnish, I didn't finish the project until late on Wednesday night (after classes started), but I'm still happy with it.

Living in South Bend, Pt 1

I suppose "Living in South Bend" could be the name of my blog if I was more inclined to regularly document my life instead of posting random musings, which have become increasingly literary. I don't post as much as I could because of a difficulty finding a balance between total literary permeation and the endless daily documentation of mundane events. So, here's a stab at letting people know what's actually going on with me.

Recently, another main reason for very few posts has been a busy schedule. From the end of August until about 6:30pm on Friday, December 17th, I had an increasingly busy schedule in a way I have never known until now. It's easy to say "I never knew what being busy really meant until..." but now I have a new frame of reference. Throughout college, I tried to juggle one or two jobs, classes, reading, and papers with other involvements and personal life, but now I have a personal life and a work life. The line between them is supposed to blur. When should I not be working toward my PhD? So far, my only good answer to that is "only when I just finished final papers," to permit for sanity.

I could talk a lot more about how my classes went last semester, and maybe I will, but right now I'm thinking about the snow outside. If you didn't know, I love snow, especially fresh or falling snow. One winter in Chicago, snow fell every 4 out of every 7 days. I loved it because the snow didn't get a chance to sit around and turn grey, then black. I've been told that we had unusually consistent snowfall so far this year in South Bend. Usually, people say, it snows often, but not for long periods of time. Sounds good to me, fresh snow all the time. On city-data.com it says that South Bend is ranked 18th on the list of 101 US cities with the most snowfall. There were no cities from Illinois on the list. I had to get used to driving, but then I had to get used to driving in the snow. It's sort of exhilarating and another reason why I'm enjoying all the snow. If I had named the blog centimes2pence2cents, I might make a tri-continent comparison of my life in terms of exposure to snow.

Oddly Encouraging Moments

In my daily flow of distractions, I rarely take the time to notice the things that have caused me to pause involuntarily. One way that is changing is in my attention to book. I read an article for "Introduction to Graduate Studies" that highlighted the significance of random browsing in library research. All researchers who spend much time reading outside of that which is strictly relevant to their project have had the experience of stumbling across a text that is peripherally relevant, otherwise helpful, or somehow moving. Thus it is that, as my thoughts have wandered while I walk among the stacks, I have just begun to notice and remember the moments when I pause. And my unconscious actions are now a source of some small, odd encouragement.

Today, walking through the fifth floor on my familiar route from carrel to elevator, I paused to look at some particularly attractive editions of the complete works of Victor Hugo. Bearing in mind that I have never read any Hugo, why pause? Last Wednesday, in the same "Intro to Grad Studies" class, we discussed various scholarly editions that we brought to class. I was encouraged today when I realized that the class, which has often been frustrating, had informed my continued enjoyment of old and intricately-designed editions. Or, my enjoyment of the gorgeous old editions has survived our class's clinical analysis of scholarly editions. Either way, I was glad to know that small beauties catch my eye, even when the books in question are irrelevant to my current studies.

It reminded me of another oddly encouraging moment almost exactly two years ago: a sunny Fall morning at Borders, my favorite of the large chain bookstores in the US. I was reading two stories by Nikolai Gogol, "The Overcoat" and "The Portrait", and really enjoyed them in way I hadn't enjoyed homework for a while. I've had similar moments this Fall sitting outside on benches around the Notre Dame campus reading Irish Literature. I can't help but remark how much it helps to not just enjoy the reading, but the circumstances of that reading: the air and rustling of the leaves. Now, I'm sitting in a tiny little carrel and have decided to go downstairs to more comfortable chairs with a view of the outside. Hopefully, something small will distract and encourage me as I notice the details required to help me along the way.

Stendhal Syndrome

I was already in a sort of ecstasy, from the idea of being in Florence, close to the great men whose tombs I had seen. Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty, I saw it up close—I touched it, so to speak. I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations…leaving Santa Croce, I experienced palpitations…my spirit was exhausted, I walked in fear of falling.

- Stendhal

Stendhal Syndrome is triggered by beautiful works of art and characterized by “loss of hearing and the sense of color, hallucinations, euphoria, panic and the fear of going mad or even of dying.”


        Is it possible to have a great work of art that can be measured by your reaction to it? I knew someone who did an art project, the sole purpose of which was to induce a headache. It was kind of ridiculous, a sort of hood that covered your whole head in tinfoil. A fan blew in your face and a bunch of white noise was produced. The darkness and close space paired with airflow and noise created a sensory deprivation and overload at the same time. It was ridiculous, but it still caught my attention. I created a theoretical idea for a similarly ambiguously artistic work of art: a painted canvas that immediately caused the viewer to vomit. Could that canvas be framed and referred to as art? Is the reaction important to the definition of art? The conversation over the sensory-overload-tinfoil-hood and whether or not it was art went on for some time, but no one agreed. The problem was that the conversation would be endless.

        I took a brief class at AS-level called “General Studies.” During our fifteen weeks in that class, taught by an eccentric but brilliant music teacher and composer, we spent at least four weeks looking into the question: What is Art? (The capitalization always seemed significant to us.) Can we put the judgment of what is or is not Art into the hands of the artist? …or the audience? Is there some intermediary? Can you refer to the artistry of natural beauty as Art, creator or not? Does subjective quality affect the degree to which a painting can be referred to as Art? Again, is the reaction important? Or perhaps the reception of Art is less important than its intention. Frustrated by weeks of discussion, I decided to come up with my own definition of Art. I identified it as “Beautiful Expression.” I allow for infinite variations in opinion of what applying ‘beautiful’ to anything actually means. Equally, and without knowing if this completely makes sense, I assert that ‘expression’ does not rely upon intentionally defined expression as in the case of an artist. I am even willing to make allowances for that which can make a beautiful impression because it allows nature to be included as Art even though the presence of ‘one who expresses’ is not as clear.

        Designations for the quality of Art are not included. I would tend toward the idea that quality of art is more subjective than objective, that objectivity is close to impossible when measuring the quality of art. I have had too many discussions over the importance of a work within the context of its time. I would tend to argue that important and significant works gain extra quality through their relevance, but it is impossible to ignore ground-breaking originality as its own sign of quality, where ingenuity enriches beyond the limits of pure skill.

        My thought isn't quite finished because I haven't really talked about Stendhal syndrome, but it's fascinating. It's inspiring just to think about the reality of having an anxiety attack because something is so profoundly beautiful. I almost hope it happens to me some day. Apparently it most commonly happens to men between the ages of 25 and 40, so I'll definitely be in the running soon enough.

"The cocala is Brok 7.9.10"

This coke machine is in my basement and there are no children that live in my building.