the critical theory of adulthood - anyone have a freakin zoloft?!
fyi: this post will be rather disjointed and long, because i am basically using this as an outlet to process thoughts and try to make sense of them.
I never realized New York City had so many hills. Okay, well not physical hills, but at least metaphorical, emotional ones. It seems the city consistently brings about bi-polarism in me. One day I will be on top of the world, queen of it all. Then, the next day, or even later in the same day, I find myself on the subway, staring off into space, wondering how I ended up at the bottom so quickly.
Last night was wonderful. I left the library feeling confident, happy, and even a little intelligent. You know, one of those moods where you suddenly feel that everything in the world could be yours.
Then this morning I woke up somewhat agitated for no real reason. Of course it never helps to have three people in one small apartment, but it wasn't my roommate or her friend that really bothered me, I was just generally rushed and restless or something. Anyway, I went to the post office to pick up a package, but they said it wasn't ready to be picked up yet. Ooookay. So I am running a little late, and the subway decides to be a local (more stops) instead of its usual express route. Plus it was the most crowded subway I think I had been on since I moved here. So, you know, my mood was only getting beaten on by a rather large flacid fish. Not pleasant, let me tell you. But I arrived at my destination - not work as usual, but a proposal writing seminar (excellent learning experience, but it was a total sit and listen seminar). Then lunch came and I was able to go outside and sit in Union Square, and it was one of the most beautiful days here in New York. The temperature was just right - a little autumn coolness perfectly blended with the shining sun. The sky was so blue, with perfect white clouds scattered about, that I felt it was a picture background. So, I ate my lunch, chatted with my sister and headed back over to my seminar - which was on 5th ave, providing a stunning clear view of the Empire State Building. So, there I was again, up on top, feeling like there was a camera spinning around me, with a happy pop song playing in the background.
By the time the seminar was over, I was ready to jump out of my chair. I was starting to feel agitated again. No real reason, other than I was eager to get out of there and there were a couple of things I needed to do before I got to the library to volunteer again tonight. So I was walking down fifth ave, not in a huge hurry anymore, just enjoying the gorgeous afternoon while still under pressure to get some things done in my 30 block journey uptown. I had enough time to play with that I thought it would be a good idea to duck into Daffy's (okay, that pun was really not intended, but haha - daffy duck!) and see if they had any good deals. It is a discount department store basically. Okay, well, shopping in general can be a dangerous thing even if I have money. Things don't fit right, colors clash, in the communal dressing room with mirrors and strangers all around, with no music playing. It was like some horrible B-grade movie that I was the sad star of. Anyway, I found some great pants that actually flattered my bottom half. But they were $30. Not a bad price for nice pants, but I couldn't really justify it. So I walked around some more, carrying around the pants, admiring a messenger bag I actually liked ($26) and still feeling somehow all of the sudden horribly unattractive, as some shopping experiences do. You see, I went into the dressing room with like 12 things - with good hope that I would look good in them, or they would actually fit. I walked out of the dressing room with one pair of pants. So I guess that maybe made me like them more. Anyway, I didn't buy them. I think I might go thrifting sometime soon, and see if I can't find some cool clothes. I wonder what people do who have lots of money to buy clothes a lot. It seems I can only afford to add to my wardrobe every once in a great while. But moving around a lot almost demands a portable, versatile wardrobe. They must have big closets. Man I am boring.
So anyway, I made it to the library, and only purchased a Clif bar. Life is okay now, but I still feel somewhat bumbling and unfashionable. Then, enter the professors of literature...
The topic this evening was about rereading books and falling in love with them again, or rediscovering new things or simply your old self in them. Excellent topic. Wonderful panel of authors. Then Q&A comes up, and I have a question rolling around in my head, and I sit there trying to process it into a conherent thought. I thought it was a relevant question, but I don't think I asked very eloquently. Basically, I was sitting there thinking about how hard it is to love literature when it is what you study. We don't read for the love anymore - it is to criticize, deconstruct, analyze, compare, memorize, theorize, etc, etc, etc. And it is all under a deadline. Even after school ends, if you are a professor, then you still have to do this. And you teach it. Of course, then you have to convince your colleagues of your brilliance by spewing forth theory and such. I don't know. I decided to ask how they "keep the love alive" basically. I got a generic answer, but really, I want to know. I do love books and reading and writing, but something has become formula about it. I haven't read the right books, or I don't like the right books. I mean, when did we become so set on the "cannon" as what is good? I would love to teach Literature and help students see how books can change their lives, but we end up spending half of the time trying to convince them that this particular book is what will change their life. Or that they should even read it. Or that a particular theory must be applied. Why can't I just allow students to learn from it in their own way? I know I can, but how does one get there in a world of such structure and pretentiousness?
That is another thing. I used to think that pretentious individuals only resided in particular academic worlds and such, but I realize that it is just part of adulthood. I hate that. It's like adults turn into football players, crawling over each other, trying to score big points, all the while flexing our muscles and winking at the cheerleaders. How did we forget that it is supposed to be fun? Or that we are all on the same team? (okay, well at least half of the players are). Anyway, this is so obvious everywhere. Just go on a date, or peruse the personal ads. Or interview for a job. Or attend a cocktail party at a university. We turn into name dropping barbarians, and we can't help it. I do it. Why do we have to grow up?! Can't I just splash around the pool all day without having a discussion about the chemical make-up of the water and what it will do to my skin?
But this happens with everything we love, it seems. Our world wants to classify and market. Look at religion. We love God/Creator, but we have to classify and theorize. Then it turns into us wondering what is it that drew us there in the first place. And marriage. People are in love! LOVE! But then 20 years go by and people say outrageous things like "I NEVER loved you." Okay, come on! You know you did at one point. How do we lose our passion? And if this is inevitable, then how will I ever decide what to focus my career on? If I am supposed to choose something I love, then I am ultimately going to kill it. Or maybe just learn how to separate it. That is really what I wanted them to answer. How do you teach literature and write, without looking at every book you read as something to be deconstructed rather than loved?
I don't know. My thoughts are like little kids on those bouncy balls, running around my head and heart. I want to love without feeling like I have to market that to the world. I want to learn things without using that knowledge to impress others. I want to keep passion pure. Is that possible? Can we be "respected adults" and still be passionate about what we do? Of course. I guess the trick is to just be true to what you know in your heart. I shouldn't try to impress anyone. Ultimately, it is me who looks in the mirror and has to accept what I see. Who cares if those pants don't fit right? They weren't tailor made for me. We are all wonderful individuals, and anytime we try to fit that into a pattern, there is bound to be a few snags and pinches. Until that pair of pants comes up that somehow makes your ass look okay, and doesn't squeeze your waistline so that it looks like you have on a tube of jello as a belt. Does it really matter what size it is? Or how much it costs? To some people yes it does. Because we look to each other for some sort of comfort. We look to the valleys to help us remember the hilltop, and in turn we appreciate the top thanks to the bottom. New York City may make me a little crazy, but it is only because there is always something for me to process and think about. It's like an amusement park for my mind/heart/soul. I'm just glad I don't get motionsickness!
sc :)
I never realized New York City had so many hills. Okay, well not physical hills, but at least metaphorical, emotional ones. It seems the city consistently brings about bi-polarism in me. One day I will be on top of the world, queen of it all. Then, the next day, or even later in the same day, I find myself on the subway, staring off into space, wondering how I ended up at the bottom so quickly.
Last night was wonderful. I left the library feeling confident, happy, and even a little intelligent. You know, one of those moods where you suddenly feel that everything in the world could be yours.
Then this morning I woke up somewhat agitated for no real reason. Of course it never helps to have three people in one small apartment, but it wasn't my roommate or her friend that really bothered me, I was just generally rushed and restless or something. Anyway, I went to the post office to pick up a package, but they said it wasn't ready to be picked up yet. Ooookay. So I am running a little late, and the subway decides to be a local (more stops) instead of its usual express route. Plus it was the most crowded subway I think I had been on since I moved here. So, you know, my mood was only getting beaten on by a rather large flacid fish. Not pleasant, let me tell you. But I arrived at my destination - not work as usual, but a proposal writing seminar (excellent learning experience, but it was a total sit and listen seminar). Then lunch came and I was able to go outside and sit in Union Square, and it was one of the most beautiful days here in New York. The temperature was just right - a little autumn coolness perfectly blended with the shining sun. The sky was so blue, with perfect white clouds scattered about, that I felt it was a picture background. So, I ate my lunch, chatted with my sister and headed back over to my seminar - which was on 5th ave, providing a stunning clear view of the Empire State Building. So, there I was again, up on top, feeling like there was a camera spinning around me, with a happy pop song playing in the background.
By the time the seminar was over, I was ready to jump out of my chair. I was starting to feel agitated again. No real reason, other than I was eager to get out of there and there were a couple of things I needed to do before I got to the library to volunteer again tonight. So I was walking down fifth ave, not in a huge hurry anymore, just enjoying the gorgeous afternoon while still under pressure to get some things done in my 30 block journey uptown. I had enough time to play with that I thought it would be a good idea to duck into Daffy's (okay, that pun was really not intended, but haha - daffy duck!) and see if they had any good deals. It is a discount department store basically. Okay, well, shopping in general can be a dangerous thing even if I have money. Things don't fit right, colors clash, in the communal dressing room with mirrors and strangers all around, with no music playing. It was like some horrible B-grade movie that I was the sad star of. Anyway, I found some great pants that actually flattered my bottom half. But they were $30. Not a bad price for nice pants, but I couldn't really justify it. So I walked around some more, carrying around the pants, admiring a messenger bag I actually liked ($26) and still feeling somehow all of the sudden horribly unattractive, as some shopping experiences do. You see, I went into the dressing room with like 12 things - with good hope that I would look good in them, or they would actually fit. I walked out of the dressing room with one pair of pants. So I guess that maybe made me like them more. Anyway, I didn't buy them. I think I might go thrifting sometime soon, and see if I can't find some cool clothes. I wonder what people do who have lots of money to buy clothes a lot. It seems I can only afford to add to my wardrobe every once in a great while. But moving around a lot almost demands a portable, versatile wardrobe. They must have big closets. Man I am boring.
So anyway, I made it to the library, and only purchased a Clif bar. Life is okay now, but I still feel somewhat bumbling and unfashionable. Then, enter the professors of literature...
The topic this evening was about rereading books and falling in love with them again, or rediscovering new things or simply your old self in them. Excellent topic. Wonderful panel of authors. Then Q&A comes up, and I have a question rolling around in my head, and I sit there trying to process it into a conherent thought. I thought it was a relevant question, but I don't think I asked very eloquently. Basically, I was sitting there thinking about how hard it is to love literature when it is what you study. We don't read for the love anymore - it is to criticize, deconstruct, analyze, compare, memorize, theorize, etc, etc, etc. And it is all under a deadline. Even after school ends, if you are a professor, then you still have to do this. And you teach it. Of course, then you have to convince your colleagues of your brilliance by spewing forth theory and such. I don't know. I decided to ask how they "keep the love alive" basically. I got a generic answer, but really, I want to know. I do love books and reading and writing, but something has become formula about it. I haven't read the right books, or I don't like the right books. I mean, when did we become so set on the "cannon" as what is good? I would love to teach Literature and help students see how books can change their lives, but we end up spending half of the time trying to convince them that this particular book is what will change their life. Or that they should even read it. Or that a particular theory must be applied. Why can't I just allow students to learn from it in their own way? I know I can, but how does one get there in a world of such structure and pretentiousness?
That is another thing. I used to think that pretentious individuals only resided in particular academic worlds and such, but I realize that it is just part of adulthood. I hate that. It's like adults turn into football players, crawling over each other, trying to score big points, all the while flexing our muscles and winking at the cheerleaders. How did we forget that it is supposed to be fun? Or that we are all on the same team? (okay, well at least half of the players are). Anyway, this is so obvious everywhere. Just go on a date, or peruse the personal ads. Or interview for a job. Or attend a cocktail party at a university. We turn into name dropping barbarians, and we can't help it. I do it. Why do we have to grow up?! Can't I just splash around the pool all day without having a discussion about the chemical make-up of the water and what it will do to my skin?
But this happens with everything we love, it seems. Our world wants to classify and market. Look at religion. We love God/Creator, but we have to classify and theorize. Then it turns into us wondering what is it that drew us there in the first place. And marriage. People are in love! LOVE! But then 20 years go by and people say outrageous things like "I NEVER loved you." Okay, come on! You know you did at one point. How do we lose our passion? And if this is inevitable, then how will I ever decide what to focus my career on? If I am supposed to choose something I love, then I am ultimately going to kill it. Or maybe just learn how to separate it. That is really what I wanted them to answer. How do you teach literature and write, without looking at every book you read as something to be deconstructed rather than loved?
I don't know. My thoughts are like little kids on those bouncy balls, running around my head and heart. I want to love without feeling like I have to market that to the world. I want to learn things without using that knowledge to impress others. I want to keep passion pure. Is that possible? Can we be "respected adults" and still be passionate about what we do? Of course. I guess the trick is to just be true to what you know in your heart. I shouldn't try to impress anyone. Ultimately, it is me who looks in the mirror and has to accept what I see. Who cares if those pants don't fit right? They weren't tailor made for me. We are all wonderful individuals, and anytime we try to fit that into a pattern, there is bound to be a few snags and pinches. Until that pair of pants comes up that somehow makes your ass look okay, and doesn't squeeze your waistline so that it looks like you have on a tube of jello as a belt. Does it really matter what size it is? Or how much it costs? To some people yes it does. Because we look to each other for some sort of comfort. We look to the valleys to help us remember the hilltop, and in turn we appreciate the top thanks to the bottom. New York City may make me a little crazy, but it is only because there is always something for me to process and think about. It's like an amusement park for my mind/heart/soul. I'm just glad I don't get motionsickness!
sc :)
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