April 28th, 2007

Better Daze

Aside from an hour-long migraine that zonked me at lunch-time (who gets a migraine for an hour?) yesterday was pretty productive, and capped off with a delightful dining/book-searching experience with Mister Scott, who took time from writing stories upon stories (productivity all around!) to buy me hwae dop bop at Hosu and help me search for books! That was a really long sentence. Everything I write is really long, these days. The novella project is stalled while I try to complete a “short” story that currently stands at an utterly point 10 000 words. I’ll have to cut it nearly in half to make it make sense, which I knew from the get go–why can’t I write efficiently the first time? This is a question for another time, or likely the rest of my life.

For now, a short leftover anecdote from Thursday: my brother was eating a popsicle and he gave me half as we walked down the street. I dropped behind him for a minute, and when I caught up, he said, “Oh…no!” I had somehow covered my entire face in pink popsicle in 60 seconds, including my nose. As I wiped my face (with the back of my hand, because I am suave), he muttered, “I am so glad I gave you that!”

Somebody showed me a picture and I just laughed
RR

April 27th, 2007

Poor day

Yesterday was hard, as days go. I had a nonspecific plan to go get bloodwork done, which is hardly traumatic, but I wasn’t looking forward to it, so I dillydallied around the house writing a letter and other stuff that I don’t even really remember, until it was late enough for the clinic to be *really* crowded, and then I finally set off.

When I got inside the medical complex, a middle-aged lady with, I think, a serious developmental delay, asked me for help. I was confused at first, but she said she had hurt her knee and needed to go upstairs. So we had to wait for the elevator, which was semi-out-of-order, for about five minutes, her clutching my arm and pointing me out to strangers the whole time, instead of me just scrambling up to my second-floor clinic like always. When finally we reached the office she specified, it was vacant.

“Do you think they moved? Do you have an appointment?” I asked her.

“We’ll go up to the fifth floor, ask the nurse,” she said confidently. We examined the stairwell, but she said she couldn’t manage even one floor with her bad knee. So we went back to the elevator for another long wait.

When the doors open, a man stepped forward and said, “Got away from me, did ya?” Turns out, her appointment was on the first floor where I met her, and he’d just gone to park the car. I apologized profusely, miserably, and ran away downstairs.

I wonder why she did that? Maybe I can see it as being like a kid, is that comparable? As a kid, I was scared of strangers, but if I hadn’t been I would’ve certainly thought it more interesting to set off with one of them, rather than my boring parents. And, well, I don’t want you to think I was a dishonest child, but before I I really understood the concepts of truth and lie and story, I occasionally changed the truth to make a better story. Once, I remember, I fabricated a mouse infestation in the sandbox, because I figured my mother’s reaction would be interesting. And it was, until I embroidered just a bit too much and she figured it out. I don’t think that many mice could’ve really hidden in the sandbox.

Downstairs in the clinic, it was of course packed. I waited about a half hour with the blood-test-ee ahead of me, a six-month-old baby who was already fussy before he was taken into a small cubicle, restrained and stabbed multiple times with needles. The kid totally lost it. His parents were great, the nurses were great, but you just can’t explain to a baby that they aren’t being grievously tortured when all evidence suggests that they are. He was wailing so hard he lost his breath, and you could hear him gasping for air to muster sound, all a desperate cry for someone to intervene and make the needles stop.

The waiting room was like death-row. I got really nauseated and realized I’d been unconsciously mirroring my breath to his, the beginnings of sympathy hyperventilation. I stopped it. The kid left with his stoic folks…you could hear him wailing some more at the elevators. My own needle barely hurt at all.

And then I went to Scarborough.

Did I mention I was carrying 30 pounds of exams through all this? And yet such is the weather funhouse that I was blown off course by the wind as I walked from RT to bus, and I’m hardly a wisp even without that weight’o’knowledge. A positive light is how terribly nice everyone in the office is at the campus there, even though I was handing stuff in late and asked a million questions and my lunch tupperware leaked on the exams. Also, when I took the remaining lunch to eat in the cafeteria there, it was a really nice space.

The day brightened considerably after that, partly due to the fact that I no longer had unpleasant things to do, and partly because I took a nap on the subway. Eventually, my charming family arrived, bearing soda, tomato sauce and potting soil, and bound to take me out for Italian food to celebrate my successful defense. It’s been a week, but when I remember that I actually did it I am still sorta elated. Ok, no sorta about it. Elated.

The food at Grazie is always splendid, and the crowd makes you feel like you are at a giant party, not just a table for four. And well, hell, it is always nice to celebrate. So we did, and then I went home and wrote, and considered the day really a success, not worthy of the subject line, but I’ll leave it for now.

He’s not here but / he’ll be round
RR

April 26th, 2007

On breadth

Wow, thanks for the fascinating reading responses yesterday. Despite one teensy freak-out over having possibly alienated Kerry (no!) with my over-glibness (a problem that I have), I enjoyed the discussion. I do feel compelled to clarify, though, that I actually really did *like* The Lovely Bones. I guess the thing I am judgey about is message/moral focussed reading–like, “I spent $30 on this book, I’d better emerge a better person.” I feel that I read for specific, intimate stories of real (even if imaginary) lives, and that to “use” the lessons of a book in my own life would require a level of generality I dislike. However Kulsum is right, who am I to judge? If you are reading Anna Karenina for ideas on how to execute your extra-marital affair with panache, ok, maybe I get to judge (maybe not), but otherwise, a reader is a reader.

Anyway, I think I somehow veered away in my post from my original question, which was about the good of breadth requirements in undergrad. Below is a more concise and focussed query, if you are interested in pursuing it. I put it up on Facebook, too, as there’s a slightly different audience over there. Any non-lit majors wanna weigh in? I know you’re out there! If people respond, I’ll put together another post; if there’s silence, I’ll let this topic die a peaceful death.

A genius marketing plan
RR

On breadth

I have been wondering what people think about breadth requirements in undergraduate education. I’m not even sure all universities have them–it means that whatever discipline you are in, you must take at least one humanties, one social science, one math/science and one language class. I actually loved the classes I took to fulfill that requirement, but I was wondering if that wasn’t just luck, if being forced to take a class in something you dislike doesn’t actually push you further from it. Thoughts? Memories of years and classes past?

April 25th, 2007

Educationally speaking

I did it, I graded 81 final examinations on CanLit! That 60ish hours of careful consideration of undergraduate views on many major Canadian authors has made me question the value of the general liberal arts education. I don’t (think I) mean that facetiously. When I first started marking, when students would started spouting made-up information on books they clearly hadn’t read, I would think to myself, slashing angrily with my orange pen, “Why take the course if you refuse to learn anything? University is, if nothing else, expensive! Take credits you care about.”

Then, about 10 papers in, I got it–they don’t have a choice. I don’t think this class per se is a requirement, but I believe some sort of low level arts class is, and this one foots the bill. I actually witnessed an attractive, reasonably organized-looking couple at the exam high-five each other while exclaiming, “Last English class ever!”

Indeed. Much as I loved my liberal arts education, and much as it has benefited me in my chosen career path as a marginally employed daydreamer, I question the value of making future engineers and media designers and office managers read short stories and poems. It only makes them angry, or worse, horribly formulaic in their reading. These are the people who grow up to read The Lovely Bones because it teaches so much about the grieving process. End-result focused reading (what’s the value-add? what’s the lesson learned?) is scary to me as a writer, because I’m not sure my work *has* a educational component, except in that airy, literary, experiental sort of way. That’s the sort of thing I like best to read…no, wait, what I *really* like to read is entertainment, for the joy of it. If it looks boring, I don’t wanna read it.

That being said, in high school, undergrad and even now, I read some things that I don’t exactly “enjoy” but that broaden my context, expose me to new ideas or challenge me to think in new ways. I like that part of it, even if I don’t like the book itself. That is what keeps me taking recommendations from all sorts of people with tastes completely unlike mine–I want to get smarter, better at this reading thing.

But that’s kinda my job, you know? As a writery person (someday I’ll make it a noun…) Besides, if anybody tries to *insist* on me reading something, I’ll balk. My spare time is too limited, and my poor brain, too. Are these balky undergrads really learning anything other than how to regurgitate reading guides and, more depressingly, how to hate literature and all its “lessons”? I worry. If requirements are punitive and boring, will they make students elect to never read again? Lots of smart people don’t read. Even fewer people read fiction–lots of super-intelligent academics don’t read outside their own fields, and they aren’t boring, stultified or trivial. I enjoy talking to these non-readers at parties; often, you’d never even *know* (we should make them wear funny hats!)

Why should books be some sort cod-liver oil of the mind? Believe me, if you were reading these exams, you’d know that enforced reading isn’t joyful. But on the other hand… I took a bunch of elective maths when I was an undergrad, which nearly killed me, and I studied music for fourteen years despite showing zero aptitude for it. Why? Because I liked the way those things made me think, what they did for my brain. And then I stopped, because I’m not young enough to just absorb new things at random, or to have the free time to do it in. I’m sure even my best theorem proofs and sonatas seemed like rote drudgery to anyone who had a gift for those disciplines, but it wasn’t the end product that was important to me; it was the way my thoughts spun on after that ending. I can’t remember for the life of me how to calculate the area under a curve, but I think I’m smarter still for having learnt it once.

So what is the answer? To read or not to read? Have there been studies done, what percentage of the population over 22 reads for pleasure, and if there is an intelligence quotient correspondence? And what about those of us who took one little course in chaos theory? Did that add brain cells or stress them to death?

Just curious.

From the 100 years war to the Crimea
RR

April 24th, 2007

More euphoria

If you are finding the Rose-coloured blog does not meet all your reading needs, perhaps you’d like to check outThe Hart House Review ’07, where you’ll find graceful poems by such as Helen Guri and Yavanna Valdellon, and a short story by me! It’s “All the Ghostlies,” and it won 2nd place in the HHR literary contest! Hooray! The journal has no web presence that I can find, unfortunately, but you can pick up a copy at Hart House itself. If your location precludes this but you still want one, I can likely be talked into getting you one without much trouble.

Despite this wonderful news, I am actually no longer euphoric, as I am plunged back into marking and sundry other pressures. I am starting to realize that I have committed to a lot for this summer, and it pisses me off that it’s going to be hard, because none of the projects are things I don’t want to do. How sad is that? I’m not even sure who I’m mad at–the world for being so interesting and giving me so many wonderful opportunities? Myself, for needing so much sleep?

My point is that I was euphoric yesterday, and probably will be so again, as soon as I mark 6 more exams, reread the failing papers (2 so far–sadness) and put all the grades into a Word document. And fill out some forms. Oh, and pay the hydro bill and reschedule my dentist appointment and write a new short story…I’ll sleep when I’m dead, I guess.

There was a hedge over which / I never could see
RR

April 23rd, 2007

Endeavourous

I swore I’d post yestereve, but we’re running a little behind schedule here at Rose-coloured, due to the fact that marking proceeds nearly nonstop. It’s affecting my mind: is there really any difference between loose and lose? Between regrets and regress? Is Lorna Crozier’s poetry really about “random stuff” and how “everything is pointless”? Hmm…

Anyway, at 5.5 hours to the original deadline, I still have 15 exams left to mark, which means had I not gotten the delightful extension from the department that I was granted (until Thursday) I likely still could’ve somehow made it. It would’ve wrecked my weekend, however, to get all that done. I’m much happier having gone to Friday’s party, slept a few hours, gone out for dinner with the Small Kitten and The Spiral of Life at Fresh last night. Good entertainment, that. We are all so professional and fascinating these days–librarians, doctors, lawyers, accountants, editors (post-birthday shout-out to Mega if she’s reading). You really have to hand it to enforced dormitory living, it bonds you to a wide range of humans that you just won’t meet in later life. Really, The Facts of Life was much more realistic than you’d think.

Statements like the above might give you a strong indication that I am in a state of lunatic euphoria these days (you know you are freaking out when stoned artists hit on you on the subway and you let them listen to your iPod). Life seems ridiculously good, which is of course terrifying. Other shoes, I feel, are always lurking!

Hey, Melanie just appeared! Hi, Mel!

Old men wanna be rich / Rich men wanna be king
RR

April 22nd, 2007

So sleepy

I went to bed ’round 3 last night, and woke up around 7 to do a bit more marking before heading out to teach the yutes some grammar–and then mark more. Now, when I’m down to 29.5 exams left to mark and could finally unguilt myself enough to sleep, I am consumed with the desire to tell you about the fun party I went to last night.

Our department head threw it at her (gorgeous) house, as a mixer for all cohorts–past, present and future–of creative writing at our school and the other uni in town that offers it. So it was all ingenuous aspiring writers and the wise sucessful ones who mentor us–all writers, writing teachers, and one musician/producer. Of course, some of my favourite folks were there, but even all the strangers were charming. Maybe the secret is to always party with writers, who are professionally into being interesting and also usually really good food.

Maybe the secret is to always wear a bridesmaid’s gown. I had thought I would wear it on Thursday to my defense, on the grounds that it is the nicest thing I own and the defense currently the most important thing going in my life. My mother, however, was so vocally dismayed at the prospect of even thinking of me entering an official academic context in said gown that I couldn’t go through with it, despite having already made vague asserstions to Mister Mentor to the contrary. So I was pressed to wear it to the party, which I was ever so glad I did. Man, I love that dress–so swirly. That Laurk has impeccable taste. And I didn’t even spill anything on it.

I was so enjoying myself that, when towards the end of the evening when the graduands were toasted, it was realized that I was the only one left. The toast was amended to, “To Rebecca!” In my state of delirious exhaustion, this sounded exactly right.

29.5 more exams. But Melanie is somewhere in the city, so I expect tomorrow won’t be an entirely serious day.

there was a hedge back home in the suburbs

RR

PS–Consider a glass raised to *all* graduands, in writing, legal translation, med school, wherever your educational path is leading.

April 20th, 2007

Think about it

Ark and Arc (and Arch)
Glutinous and Gluttonous
Influenza and Influential

Oh, I love words (wouldn’t it be horrid if I didn’t; like an anorexic chef) but how would I ever explain those to my wee students?

Who am I kidding, they would never ask!

Time to put on my party dress!

Death or glory
RR

Defensive tips

1) Do get batteries for your camera the night before, not on the way to, unless you enjoy darting sweaty and breathless into a room where people are waiting for you
2) Do not wear eyeliner for the first time in a year–it will not go well
3) Don’t assume you can extemporize wittily. If you want to be witty, write it down.
4) Don’t fear the chair, for she will never say anything but she *will* laugh at all your jokes
5) Do write down all the critiques you receive, as fear tends to impede memory
6) Do use the time where they send you out of the room while the committee discusses whether you deserve a degree or not to go to the bathroom
7) Don’t feel that just because professional-type academic clothes don’t show that much skin, you can’t wear body glitter. You can work that stuff right through your nylons.
8) Do take pictures (see #5) like a gawky tourist, including one of the streetcar en route (not the one you take, as it turns out, because the photographed streetcar will blow right past you)
9) Do have something exciting for lunch afterwards–you deserve it
10) Don’t worry–it’ll be fine!!!

Fine a job in a paper
RR

April 18th, 2007

Today’s Post is Brought to you by the Letter P

Ever since I made the rash assertion that I am a rosy-natured person, I seeme to have unleashed the hounds of snark, complaining and gossiping and being generally being decidedly grey-coloured. In an attempt to end this streak, a post about positive things, heavily weighted towards the letter P for some reason.

–homemade pirogi (courtesy Stephanie)
–handwritten post
–long-lost friends reappearing on Facebook (hello, Afshan!)
–peach cake (courtesy G-ma’s recipe)
–friendly people on the subway
–nice invigilating assistant on Monday saving me from destroying the exam
–running around the exam room in my stocking feet (I decided to do so because my clompy boots were disturbing the exmainees, but the effect was quite joyful for me, too)
–snarky books, that say mean things better than I ever could
–knowledge that Ross is running, possibly right now
–pest-control people not wrecking my place or covering stuff I need with poison (I’m reaching here, I know, I know)

And will I be mentioning a word about how my defense is tomorrow and I have *three* nasty bruises due to my own clumsiness and one of the undergrads spelled English Inglish and every timepiece I own is broken? No, because I am thinking positive today. Abso-freakin-loutly.

23 hours until D(efense)-Day!

She’s like so whatever
RR