January 2010 Archives
Reasons to Be Read To
An excerpt from Camille Dungy's 2006 collection What to Eat, What to Drink, What to Leave for Poison:
Thursday, February 4
3:30-5:00 p.m.
"Editing Black Nature"
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL
and later that evening,
7:00 p.m.--Camille's reading from her new collection, Suck on the Marrow
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL.
Four days ago, the dogwood was a fistCome out and hear her for yourself.
in protest. Now look. Even she unfurls
to the pleasure of the season. Don't be
ashamed of yourself. Don't be. This happens
to us all. We have thrown back the blanket.
We're naked and we've grown to love ourselves.
I tell you, do not be ashamed.
Thursday, February 4
3:30-5:00 p.m.
"Editing Black Nature"
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL
and later that evening,
7:00 p.m.--Camille's reading from her new collection, Suck on the Marrow
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL.
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Counting the Days
Seriously: Camille T. Dungy's book Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry is a major, major intervention in nature writing, and I cannot wait to hear her talk about it next week. The introduction alone is brilliant, and the poems and essays are a treasure-house. Honorée Fanonne Jeffers interviews Camille about the book.
(FYI, those who plan to join us for wining and dining: Camille assures me that tippling around her is no issue.)
But on a less joyful topic: Academia's endless judging is working my last (raw) nerve, and it has to do with judging. "There is no reason, no need, to make a contest out of anything," writes Zen Buddhist Cheri Huber. Sufi mystic Rumi wrote something like, Out beyond good and bad, there is a field. I'll meet you there. "I cannot count one. I know not the first letter of the alphabet. I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver," writes Thoreau. Judge not, lest ye be judged.
Yes, the soul replies.
But academia, required to fetishize the cleaver of intellect, makes a contest out of everything. Right now, we're furiously judging all kinds of folks: a multitude of job candidates, a record-breaking number of graduate application files in English (due, sadly, to the recession), et cetera . . . The mind can do that. Yes. But the mind needs rest. The mind needs to loaf and invite its soul.
I'm craving downtime, nature, and peace. And my pace of blogging on here has dropped; sorry. I should just declare a January hiatus. The pace of work is always ridiculous in January.
And judgments, I'm guessing, will only get more stringent. UNL's chancellor today announced that he'll be looking for ways to cut an additional $5.2 million from the budget this spring. Cue mirthless laughter.
Obama's address this week was kick-ass, though. That was a cheery 70 minutes of telling it like it is.
Uh-oh. The heat shut off in my office building--it does that automatically for the weekend--and I can feel it getting colder in here. I'd better bundle up and head home. Stay warm, sweet people. Keep writing.
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Lucky Us!
Dear and gentle readers, we (here in Lincoln) will soon be graced by a visit from the lovely and amazing poet Camille Dungy, author of two books and editor of two more. Mark your calendar, Star City Sceners:
Thursday, February 4
3:30-5:00 p.m.
"Editing Black Nature"
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL
and later that evening,
7:00 p.m.--Camille's inaugural reading from her brand-new collection, Suck on the Marrow
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL.
Her edited anthology Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry, is especially exciting for anyone who's noticed that nature-writing anthologies tend to be not only green but white. (Seriously. Scan your collections' TOCs now.) At the 3:30 presentation, she'll talk about the process of gathering the poems and shepherding the book through the editing process at University of Georgia Press.
At 7:00 p.m., she'll read from her own work--particularly her new book Suck on the Marrow, a collection rooted in 19th-century history, which Natasha Trethewey calls "[p]lainspoken and unflinching," marked by "restraint and wry wit." She'll then be happy to chat and sign books, which will be available for purchase after the reading.
I first heard Camille read in 2004 at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. She was a Bread Loaf Scholar, and of course all the Scholars are solid, but when Camille began to read, the air in the Little Theater hushed. Folks didn't even cough. The poems--and her riveting delivery--were knockout. I can't wait to hear her read from her new book. (And I can't believe she's gotten 4 books into print since then! Makes me feel laaazy.)
It's going to be an honor and a pleasure to have her here. And readers, I happen to know happy news: she's pregnant! So there'll be no wining with our dining, but we do intend to have fun.
On the home front, James and I are now cosily ensconced in our new place--which feels, after two and a half years in a smaller apartment, practically palatial. Its sweeping vistas of 1082 square feet and its blank white walls seem all Dr. Zhivagoesque to me--you know, those wide snowy plains with the tiny troika gliding along?
Now, as I've mentioned, the floors are bare, unfinished concrete, so it has roughly the ambience of a parking garage, and the appliances are from the 1970s. (The refrigerator shelves proudly proclaim "Spacemaker Door," as if it's a radical new invention, and the scary microwave has more knobs and dials than a cockpit.) Since we haven't been able to paint yet, the plaster from the refinished (popcorn-be-gone) ceiling sifts down in a fine white dust, coating everything.
But it's home, and it's ours, and we're happy.
Many thanks to Sandra and Cindy for their recent notes of encouragement and congratulations; to Ingrid and Douglas for the bread and salt, which is an old German custom of housewarming; and to Susan and Linck for the wine. We hope to be having some of y'all over soon.
Thursday, February 4
3:30-5:00 p.m.
"Editing Black Nature"
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL
and later that evening,
7:00 p.m.--Camille's inaugural reading from her brand-new collection, Suck on the Marrow
Bailey Library, Andrews Hall, UNL.
Her edited anthology Black Nature: Four Centuries of African American Nature Poetry, is especially exciting for anyone who's noticed that nature-writing anthologies tend to be not only green but white. (Seriously. Scan your collections' TOCs now.) At the 3:30 presentation, she'll talk about the process of gathering the poems and shepherding the book through the editing process at University of Georgia Press.
At 7:00 p.m., she'll read from her own work--particularly her new book Suck on the Marrow, a collection rooted in 19th-century history, which Natasha Trethewey calls "[p]lainspoken and unflinching," marked by "restraint and wry wit." She'll then be happy to chat and sign books, which will be available for purchase after the reading.I first heard Camille read in 2004 at the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. She was a Bread Loaf Scholar, and of course all the Scholars are solid, but when Camille began to read, the air in the Little Theater hushed. Folks didn't even cough. The poems--and her riveting delivery--were knockout. I can't wait to hear her read from her new book. (And I can't believe she's gotten 4 books into print since then! Makes me feel laaazy.)
It's going to be an honor and a pleasure to have her here. And readers, I happen to know happy news: she's pregnant! So there'll be no wining with our dining, but we do intend to have fun.
On the home front, James and I are now cosily ensconced in our new place--which feels, after two and a half years in a smaller apartment, practically palatial. Its sweeping vistas of 1082 square feet and its blank white walls seem all Dr. Zhivagoesque to me--you know, those wide snowy plains with the tiny troika gliding along?
Now, as I've mentioned, the floors are bare, unfinished concrete, so it has roughly the ambience of a parking garage, and the appliances are from the 1970s. (The refrigerator shelves proudly proclaim "Spacemaker Door," as if it's a radical new invention, and the scary microwave has more knobs and dials than a cockpit.) Since we haven't been able to paint yet, the plaster from the refinished (popcorn-be-gone) ceiling sifts down in a fine white dust, coating everything.
But it's home, and it's ours, and we're happy.
Many thanks to Sandra and Cindy for their recent notes of encouragement and congratulations; to Ingrid and Douglas for the bread and salt, which is an old German custom of housewarming; and to Susan and Linck for the wine. We hope to be having some of y'all over soon.
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Heartbreak, Information, Action
If you have only five minutes for a quick overview, Tracy Kidder offers this rundown of the centuries of political and economic injustices against Haiti that have placed the nation in this extremely tenuous position. As Kidder writes, "while earthquakes are acts of nature, extreme vulnerability to earthquakes is manmade."
Avaaz, a terrific worldwide peace-and-justice organization, offers a secure and reliable way to donate. President Obama's take on the situation and call for donations are here. For a way to donate $5--immediately, from your phone--Tayari can hook you up.
Love going out to Irma, Enek, Luke, and Jennifer in Texas.
Avaaz, a terrific worldwide peace-and-justice organization, offers a secure and reliable way to donate. President Obama's take on the situation and call for donations are here. For a way to donate $5--immediately, from your phone--Tayari can hook you up.
Love going out to Irma, Enek, Luke, and Jennifer in Texas.
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In the Weeds!
Note to self: In next life, do not pursue academic career. (That's assuming I misbehave myself sufficiently to come back as a human, rather than as one of my aspirational species, like a porpoise or a gorilla, who got it, in my opinion, right. Alas, I'll probably pay for my sins by pursuing, in Barbara Kingsolver's phrase, "the hominid agenda" all over again.)
Classes are gorgeous, my four graduate teaching interns are perfect, the job candidates beginning to mill about the campus are brilliant, and we have more files in graduate admissions than I can shake a stick at, but we are moving house this Saturday. What was I thinking? My life is in boxes just as the insanity of the spring semester is swinging into gear.
And yesterday, since this big gooey cake needed further icing, I managed to drop my cell phone down a flight of stairs, shattering its innards, which refused to respond to all my desperate ticklings. I am now the bewildered owner of a new phone smarter than I am.
Writing, literature, deep thoughts? Ha. Forget about it. I'm just posting to let you know I'm still alive.
And now, to prep.
Classes are gorgeous, my four graduate teaching interns are perfect, the job candidates beginning to mill about the campus are brilliant, and we have more files in graduate admissions than I can shake a stick at, but we are moving house this Saturday. What was I thinking? My life is in boxes just as the insanity of the spring semester is swinging into gear.
And yesterday, since this big gooey cake needed further icing, I managed to drop my cell phone down a flight of stairs, shattering its innards, which refused to respond to all my desperate ticklings. I am now the bewildered owner of a new phone smarter than I am.
Writing, literature, deep thoughts? Ha. Forget about it. I'm just posting to let you know I'm still alive.
And now, to prep.
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Got Happiness?
Costa Rica does. Try investing in education and the environment, not artillery. And note this:
Me, I'm staying in the hot shower until the weather breaks. ¡Viva Nebraska!
Beaches probably don't hurt, either.Latin countries generally do well in happiness surveys. Mexico and Colombia rank higher than the United States in self-reported contentment. Perhaps one reason is a cultural emphasis on family and friends, on social capital over financial capital. . . .
Me, I'm staying in the hot shower until the weather breaks. ¡Viva Nebraska!
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Snowmageddon!
It's an evil winter wonderland out there, with crazy 22-below-zero wind chills and walls of horizontally blowing snow. Our apartment building is so old--with its original 1905 windows semi-intact--that I woke up this morning with a breeze blowing across my face. This is not the kind of holiday chillin' I hankered for.
All of our books are gone, already hauled in boxes over to the new (better insulated!) apartment, and our art is down, so the walls even look nude and cold here. Just our furniture, clothes, and computers remain. We move on Saturday the 16th.
Classes start Monday, and as I prepare for the first week of the semester, I'm taking heart from the words of Anatole France: "Do not try to satisfy your vanity by teaching a great many things. Awaken people's curiosity. It is enough to open minds; do not overload them. Put there just a spark. If there is some good flammable stuff, it will catch fire."
I like this very much.
But of course, I can't help but wonder if the notion that I can open minds by trying--that teachers do so, as we often tell each other and ourselves--is a kind of vanity in itself.
Rather: In what ways is my own mind still closed? How can I learn to open it? That seems like the more honest and gentle way to move forward. Teachers do succeed in opening minds--we hear about it from grateful students who write to say so. But I think it may be in ways we don't even anticipate, much less plan for. Students remember the most casual comment, dropped in haste. Small things make an impression. That's why teaching is such a careful business. It's good practice in mindfulness.
I'm teaching intro to women's literature--to women, for the first time!*--and autobiographical nature writing, which is a new course for me. In women's lit, we're beginning with fairy tales (widely understood by scholars to be the narrative products of women: mothers, nurses, the much denigrated "old wives") and then working through about 200 years of intertextual responses: Jane Eyre, The Yellow Wallpaper, A Room of One's Own, Wide Sargasso Sea, The Bluest Eye, The Bloody Chamber, The House on Mango Street. Should be interesting.
In autobiographical nature writing, we'll be reading environmental lit--and writing, writing, writing. We'll go outside once the weather warms up, but before that happens, we'll be watching two documentaries, which I recommend highly if you haven't seen them: Andy Goldsworthy's Rivers and Tides and Arctic Dance: The Mardy Murie Story.
Grey left. I did howl--quietly, at home. Parenting is such an ambivalent practice. One loves so passionately, so profoundly--yet really wants the kid to grow up and get on with life. I won't go into detail about the particulars of our situation. I'll just say this: I always face Grey's visits home (now that he's been away at college) with trepidation--there will inevitably be tensions, arguments, friction, as he defines himself and his life in a different way from ours (and lets us know that in no uncertain terms)--and yet, I'm always wrenched with sadness when he leaves. It took me a good 24 hours to recover after his bus pulled away. Are other parents laid so low? Is there a manual for this?
*Teaching women's literature and feminist theory at an all-male college is an education unto itself. I recommend it highly. For short periods.
All of our books are gone, already hauled in boxes over to the new (better insulated!) apartment, and our art is down, so the walls even look nude and cold here. Just our furniture, clothes, and computers remain. We move on Saturday the 16th.
Classes start Monday, and as I prepare for the first week of the semester, I'm taking heart from the words of Anatole France: "Do not try to satisfy your vanity by teaching a great many things. Awaken people's curiosity. It is enough to open minds; do not overload them. Put there just a spark. If there is some good flammable stuff, it will catch fire."
I like this very much.
But of course, I can't help but wonder if the notion that I can open minds by trying--that teachers do so, as we often tell each other and ourselves--is a kind of vanity in itself.
Rather: In what ways is my own mind still closed? How can I learn to open it? That seems like the more honest and gentle way to move forward. Teachers do succeed in opening minds--we hear about it from grateful students who write to say so. But I think it may be in ways we don't even anticipate, much less plan for. Students remember the most casual comment, dropped in haste. Small things make an impression. That's why teaching is such a careful business. It's good practice in mindfulness.
I'm teaching intro to women's literature--to women, for the first time!*--and autobiographical nature writing, which is a new course for me. In women's lit, we're beginning with fairy tales (widely understood by scholars to be the narrative products of women: mothers, nurses, the much denigrated "old wives") and then working through about 200 years of intertextual responses: Jane Eyre, The Yellow Wallpaper, A Room of One's Own, Wide Sargasso Sea, The Bluest Eye, The Bloody Chamber, The House on Mango Street. Should be interesting.
In autobiographical nature writing, we'll be reading environmental lit--and writing, writing, writing. We'll go outside once the weather warms up, but before that happens, we'll be watching two documentaries, which I recommend highly if you haven't seen them: Andy Goldsworthy's Rivers and Tides and Arctic Dance: The Mardy Murie Story.
Grey left. I did howl--quietly, at home. Parenting is such an ambivalent practice. One loves so passionately, so profoundly--yet really wants the kid to grow up and get on with life. I won't go into detail about the particulars of our situation. I'll just say this: I always face Grey's visits home (now that he's been away at college) with trepidation--there will inevitably be tensions, arguments, friction, as he defines himself and his life in a different way from ours (and lets us know that in no uncertain terms)--and yet, I'm always wrenched with sadness when he leaves. It took me a good 24 hours to recover after his bus pulled away. Are other parents laid so low? Is there a manual for this?
*Teaching women's literature and feminist theory at an all-male college is an education unto itself. I recommend it highly. For short periods.
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Reasons to Be Blogging
Hiatus: over. Hellooooo, readers! I hope you've survived the holidays, the MLA convention, and your family members' best intentions. It's good to be back.
The bread pudding worked wonderfully well with egg replacement powder and Earth Balance buttery sticks (because I know you've been up nights wondering). The whiskey sauce, however, turned out more like a scary oil slick of yuck. I do not recommend it. Next time, I'll just pour the whiskey straight onto the pudding.
One surprising benefit to hosting a militant vegan is that James and I are apparently among the 19 American adults who gained no weight over the holidays. (Must look into this....) Of course, I now twitch when I see an omelet, but that's seemingly the price that must be paid.
Grey leaves Tuesday for his final semester at Oberlin. It usually takes me a full day of wrenching misery to regain my equilibrium after he leaves, so expect nothing on Wednesday--except perhaps the echoing sound of faint howls, if you're in the Lincoln area.
I love popcorn, but not on the ceiling, so you'll be relieved to know that our new apartment (where the 1970s crawled in and died) now has only smooth white planes overhead and lacks any shred of the stained turquoise carpet that once odiously coated the floors. Now, thanks to the guys who ripped it out, we instead have odious cement, with squiggles of yellow carpet glue that look alarmingly like mucus, and we will be living with them until after Grey graduates. The love of parents is a formidable force, people. Do not tangle with it. It can make otherwise sane, selfish humans live with very ugly floors for unconscionable periods. The only bright spot is that we'll be able to save on pumice stones.
As suggested by a certain university press, I have used my holiday to reread and take copious notes on the manuscript formerly known as ANY NUMBER OF OLD LADIES and now tentatively known as FAMILY TROUBLE: MEMOIRISTS ON THE HAZARDS AND REWARDS OF REVEALING FAMILY in order to write my introduction to the collection, which I will begin to draft tomorrow. It's due on the 8th. (Cue maniacal laughter of the over-promiser.)
If all goes well, it looks like we might have a very distinguished younger poet here at UNL this spring--in addition to the (kiss-kiss love-love amazing) writer Randall Kenan, who'll be here for two weeks, teaching a seminar, and other assorted visiting writers. I can't publicize this poet's identity until her visit's set in stone, but I'm working on it. More on this later.
Readers from the great beyond, just when you thought we Lincoln-dwellers might be weary of our fair city (the blizzards, the below-zero temperatures, Ben Nelson), in comes a report from Women's Health that Lincoln, Nebraska is one of the U.S.'s ten best cities for women. We're ranked #8, because "[t]he average life expectancy is 80 years," "Lincoln has had zero days of unhealthy air quality from 2004 to 2008," and Star City denizens have "[a]n average commute of only 17 minutes," which "also means less teeth-grinding stress."
So if you do happen to need to move to Lincoln, you can rest assured that you'll also lower your stress, breathe easy, and live longer. Of course, the article also recommends moving to Fargo if you want a date (100 men for every 79 women), so its attitude may be just a touch cup-half-full (not to mention heteronormative) for me.
Speaking of towns, the locale where I spent the most godawful two years of my childhood, from 12 to 14, also happens to be the hometown of the stunning fiction writer Jayne Anne Phillips, who penned "Buckhannon, West Virginia: The Perfect Birthplace," a surprisingly folksy tribute (surprising, that is, for a writer who does harrowing and haunting the way most of us breathe), for the latest issue of Smithsonian magazine.
For me, the very landscape of Buckhannnon meant hunger, abuse, fear, and the way everyone who knew us--schoolteachers, neighbors, classmates, and churchgoers--turned a blind eye. But for Jayne Anne and the many people who commented on her piece, Buckhannon was a beautiful home. It's all a matter of perspective, I guess, and it's a refreshing jolt to be reminded of how much happiness was really there.
For writers, here's some good advice from Susan Orlean's Twitter feed, @Susanorlean: "If a story ends up just like you imagined it would, you've done something wrong. It should surprise the reader AND the writer." Too true. So shake off that complacency and go for the ending it deserves.
Friend-of-the-blog Faye Snider recommends Elizabeth Gilbert's perspective on writing memoir in the recent Poets & Writers, which I have not read yet, and alas, it's only available in the print version, but if you've got the issue, the piece is called, "Fires of Inspiration: How the Winter's Biggest Books Got Started," and I trust Faye's judgment (even if another friend once referred to Gilbert's memoir Eat, Pray, Love as "So Much Privilege, So Little Time," LOL), so check it out.
The bread pudding worked wonderfully well with egg replacement powder and Earth Balance buttery sticks (because I know you've been up nights wondering). The whiskey sauce, however, turned out more like a scary oil slick of yuck. I do not recommend it. Next time, I'll just pour the whiskey straight onto the pudding.
One surprising benefit to hosting a militant vegan is that James and I are apparently among the 19 American adults who gained no weight over the holidays. (Must look into this....) Of course, I now twitch when I see an omelet, but that's seemingly the price that must be paid.
Grey leaves Tuesday for his final semester at Oberlin. It usually takes me a full day of wrenching misery to regain my equilibrium after he leaves, so expect nothing on Wednesday--except perhaps the echoing sound of faint howls, if you're in the Lincoln area.
I love popcorn, but not on the ceiling, so you'll be relieved to know that our new apartment (where the 1970s crawled in and died) now has only smooth white planes overhead and lacks any shred of the stained turquoise carpet that once odiously coated the floors. Now, thanks to the guys who ripped it out, we instead have odious cement, with squiggles of yellow carpet glue that look alarmingly like mucus, and we will be living with them until after Grey graduates. The love of parents is a formidable force, people. Do not tangle with it. It can make otherwise sane, selfish humans live with very ugly floors for unconscionable periods. The only bright spot is that we'll be able to save on pumice stones.
As suggested by a certain university press, I have used my holiday to reread and take copious notes on the manuscript formerly known as ANY NUMBER OF OLD LADIES and now tentatively known as FAMILY TROUBLE: MEMOIRISTS ON THE HAZARDS AND REWARDS OF REVEALING FAMILY in order to write my introduction to the collection, which I will begin to draft tomorrow. It's due on the 8th. (Cue maniacal laughter of the over-promiser.)
If all goes well, it looks like we might have a very distinguished younger poet here at UNL this spring--in addition to the (kiss-kiss love-love amazing) writer Randall Kenan, who'll be here for two weeks, teaching a seminar, and other assorted visiting writers. I can't publicize this poet's identity until her visit's set in stone, but I'm working on it. More on this later.
Readers from the great beyond, just when you thought we Lincoln-dwellers might be weary of our fair city (the blizzards, the below-zero temperatures, Ben Nelson), in comes a report from Women's Health that Lincoln, Nebraska is one of the U.S.'s ten best cities for women. We're ranked #8, because "[t]he average life expectancy is 80 years," "Lincoln has had zero days of unhealthy air quality from 2004 to 2008," and Star City denizens have "[a]n average commute of only 17 minutes," which "also means less teeth-grinding stress."
So if you do happen to need to move to Lincoln, you can rest assured that you'll also lower your stress, breathe easy, and live longer. Of course, the article also recommends moving to Fargo if you want a date (100 men for every 79 women), so its attitude may be just a touch cup-half-full (not to mention heteronormative) for me.
Speaking of towns, the locale where I spent the most godawful two years of my childhood, from 12 to 14, also happens to be the hometown of the stunning fiction writer Jayne Anne Phillips, who penned "Buckhannon, West Virginia: The Perfect Birthplace," a surprisingly folksy tribute (surprising, that is, for a writer who does harrowing and haunting the way most of us breathe), for the latest issue of Smithsonian magazine.
For me, the very landscape of Buckhannnon meant hunger, abuse, fear, and the way everyone who knew us--schoolteachers, neighbors, classmates, and churchgoers--turned a blind eye. But for Jayne Anne and the many people who commented on her piece, Buckhannon was a beautiful home. It's all a matter of perspective, I guess, and it's a refreshing jolt to be reminded of how much happiness was really there.
For writers, here's some good advice from Susan Orlean's Twitter feed, @Susanorlean: "If a story ends up just like you imagined it would, you've done something wrong. It should surprise the reader AND the writer." Too true. So shake off that complacency and go for the ending it deserves.
Friend-of-the-blog Faye Snider recommends Elizabeth Gilbert's perspective on writing memoir in the recent Poets & Writers, which I have not read yet, and alas, it's only available in the print version, but if you've got the issue, the piece is called, "Fires of Inspiration: How the Winter's Biggest Books Got Started," and I trust Faye's judgment (even if another friend once referred to Gilbert's memoir Eat, Pray, Love as "So Much Privilege, So Little Time," LOL), so check it out.
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