Blunt and Sharp Objects

Though I won’t start graduate school until Fall 2010, I’ve started looking at potential programs and schools. I’m currently considering American studies, comparative literature, English, and linguistics programs. Hopefully I can narrow it down to three or four applications, because it's too much to apply to multiple schools for each program. My generalist tendencies haven’t made it easy for me to get specific.

In an attempt to whittle the possibilities, I’ve been trying to come up with a focus that I could make part of my application. While doing the dishes a couple of minutes ago I thought of a question that could serve as a starting point:

How has scientific progress (especially theoretical physics) shaped American identity, and how is that expressed in art (especially literature)?

Or:

How does American literature express the impact of theoretical physics in defining identity?

Or maybe:

How has physics’ changing view of the universe, and its relation to the self, affected and been expressed in American literature?

It’s still clumsy, but it’s a start. I guess there’s more whittling to do. One thing’s for sure, though: Clint Eastwood looks like a combination of Vincent Cassel and Hugh Jackman.

Y2Krazy Legs

Sometimes when I walk in public places, such as the hallways at the schools here, I feel awkward, like a lead singer who doesn’t dance, play an instrument, or have the intensity and presence to just stand and sing comfortably. Other times I’ll have a song in my head, or just a solid feeling in my bones, and my gait will feel natural. Comfortable.

It’s funny that it varies from day to day. Not like other movements and skills that we can master, when once you’ve got it down you keep it down. Awkward strides bubble up throughout my weeks.

Transposition

All of my formal writing classes have happened during the summer. At Keene I did the 2005 Writing Conference, and this past summer I participated in the National Writing Project’s summer institute. My music training, however, has spanned seasons.

I chose breadth over depth in learning instruments, which sated my generalist appetite but left me frustrated that I don’t have an artistic medium in which I feel effective. Over the past year I’ve decided to focus mainly on writing. So far it hasn’t amounted to much, but I will work diligently.

Yet when I try to transpose some of my music studies to writing, I’m at a loss. Mainly, there’s no equivalent in literature to a musical etude. I can’t “practice” a piece for thirty minutes each day. It’s a constant work of composition. There’s no Chopin to help me master the black keys in writing.

My piano instructor at Keene, whom I had for only a semester, told me that I was a good example of how much one can improve with consistent practice. I would go into the piano room each day and work on a section for a half an hour. By the end of the semester I could play the whole piece by memory.

When I mentioned this incompatibility to a good friend, he suggested that the closest equivalent of a “writing etude” is in typography. But that doesn’t do it for me. I want something that is versatile, fitting different techniques and abilities in performing writing, just as an etude does for the musician.

Maybe the writing equivalent of a musical etude is reading. The “performer” gives the text a voice, and makes an interpretation. Different styles and genres require different approaches and skills. Though does that mean the reader needs to then write, in response or imitation, to fully practice?

Apollo's Steed

The typical weather in Landivisiau seems to be overcast skies with scattered rain and varying winds. Two weeks ago, however, we had a streak of sunny days. Thanks to an English teacher at the high school, I had a day at the beach.



We left Plouescat for Roscoff, a small port town that services ferries to an even smaller island off its coast. I think they also have ferries that go to England. The wind felt pushy as I stood on a high rock at the Plouescat beach, but it was overbearing as we walked into the ocean on the bridge leading to the ferry access.



With good weather the following day and a friend of a friend with a car, we went back to Plouescat, this time to a much larger beach. I played with a soccer ball while the others collected seashells. Because it was so windy, I could kick the ball as far as I wanted (in the right direction) and eventually it would roll back to me.



Today we didn’t have much sun, but we had our horses. When you drive into Landivisiau there’s a sign that says (in French and Breton) “Welcome to Landivisiau, Home of the Horses.” Outside my window is a large, dirt parking lot that used to host the best horse market in the region. Things have changed, but today they had some sort of horse show. Lots of old people, some of them judges, and nervous chevaux.

Conseil de Classe (pt. 1)

Yesterday evening I went to a “conseil de classe” at the middle school. It’s a meeting that takes place at the end of each trimester, in both the high school and middle school, and is a central part of the French education system.

Eight teachers, two parents, two students, a guidance counselor, and an administrator met for roughly an hour and a half to discuss the grades, classroom behavior, progress, and overall state of each student in a group of 28. Like the “clusters” I had in middle school, the school separates students into multiple groups within each grade.

Ideally, the teachers include each educator that the group of students has. The two students are elected representatives who take notes and serve as liaisons between their peers and the “conseil de classe.” Parent representatives serve the same role, talking with other parents, and come as volunteers.

Because teachers had already submitted grades for the trimester, the principal used a laptop and projector to show each student’s results. The representation of grades via bar graph allowed him to compare the grades to the class average and the student’s results from the previous trimester.

Beaten to the (glancing) Punch

My seven-year sweetheart brought this article to my attention, prompting the following letter to the editor at the New Yorker:

Joan Acocella’s question, “Why Do Vampires Still Thrill?” leads her through the transformation of the vampire’s portrayal, from “grotesque creatures” in Eastern Europe to a “handsome revenant” in Louisiana. Acocella also mentions the many modern analyses of vampire stories, specifically Stoker’s “Dracula,” and their prevalent focus on sex. She does not, however, give much attention to the religious origins of the vampire –a curse from God for severe sinners – or the role of religion in following vampire stories. I wonder if Acocella or other vampire scholars have considered the vampire’s change from repulsive curse to sex symbol – look at the modern actors and actresses who have played vampire roles – as indicative of a shift in cultural beliefs, specifically from religious to secular. Eternity on earth when there’s no promise of heaven.

Subtleties

Last week I told both of my 4ieme classes (French equivalent of 7th graders) to work in groups of four and create sketches. One of the scenarios I assigned is "Teacher talks with a student," and I suggested they discuss a recent exam grade, or something like that. Here's what one group came up with, performed yesterday:

"Teacher" : Hello Johnny.

"Student" : Hello Mr. Bean.

T: Can I talk with you?

S: Yes. When?

T: Now.

S: OK.

"Student" sits down, "Teacher" stays standing.

T: You're a loser.



That's it. I once heard that French is the language of diplomacy because one can say many words without saying much of anything, so I guess this is what happens when you translate - or distill - from French to English.