I have come to this point in my college career and I must ask myself the all-important question why? I find that I am unhappy with where I am going and I know it's my fault. I suppose it started somewhere in high school. My mother wanted desperately for me to be successful (as all mothers do). She would suggest, from time to time, that I become a doctor or a scientist. I considered her words briefly. I thought of how nice it would be to have all the money I needed. I thought of how great it would be to provide all of the luxuries I could think of for my family. That is, I considered all this until my grades returned in Geometry, Physics, and Algebra II (which I only passed because I was "a good kid").
As you can imagine, this limited my choices, and I was left to decide between the soft sciences and the arts. Psychology, while interesting, was a little too perverted, history too boring, and political science sickening. My handwriting has always been poor and my drawings even worse. What, then, is a boy to do? Luckily, fate intervened, as she often does in stories like these, in the form of a creative writing teacher. On the last day of my senior year in high school she said to me, "You're insane if you don't go into a career in writing."
I shrugged off her advice as an errant compliment and kept on with my original career decision of becoming a computer programmer, which had always been a hobby of mine. After getting weeded by CS 101, and then not finding Print Journalism to my liking, I landed in the English major. Just another degenerate, forced into the amorphous degree that is barely one step above the General Studies major.
After coming to terms with where I was, I developed that artsy chip on my shoulder that broadcasts "I'm not in it for the money, I'm in it for the craft." I knew that all the others would work all their lives and I never would, because I enjoyed what I was learning and doing.
But now, four years later, I find myself caught in that same lie that I had been trying to get away from. That you can buy anything in this world for money. I had decided to get a PhD in Romantic Literature. I made a goal to get into a top school, I took a GRE prep course, and I bought books about grad school. In short, I was determined to become a highly respected and well paid Professor (an oxymoron though it may be). But while reading my books about grad school I became overwhelmed by the busywork, politicking, finagling, over-achieving, money, time, and overall ridiculousness of the process. So much so that it simply has made me question my own motivations. Basically, I had better be damn sure that this is what I want to do if I'm going to put myself through those things. I was overwhelmed by how emotionally and academically under-prepared I am for what I had planned to do.
And then to top it all off, the other day I was reading an essay by a top scholar in my chosen field and I found myself nauseated by what I was being forced to read. I tried to push away the thousand thoughts that assailed me to no avail. And after some further reflection on them, I cannot help but admit their validity. These were the questions and thoughts that swirled around my brain about my career choice, about me, and about the essay that sat in my lap:
- What is the point of all this "literary analysis," "scholarship," and "research" drivel?
- Who cares?
- Why is this scholar writing? Is it really to be read by an exclusive elitist crowd who label themselves intellectual? More often than not, essays come across as exercises in intellectual masturbation rather than creative analysis out of love for the works themselves. And these scholars are the people that we as students should aspire to become?
- Did this person plan on becoming a stuffy critic when they first began their career? For indeed, Academe has turned being a Professor of Literature into a glorified literary critic (and I mean that in the worst sense). With the rise of Formalism and the need to be taken seriously, scholars sacrificed their love of literature for a false sense of acceptance in the world of education. Though they may couch their criticism in terms of comparison, analysis, and literary jargon, the only thing that differentiates them from modern critics is that they cite other critcs that came before them and use MLA format. All while making new "discoveries" about the past.
- I wanted to ask this professor, what drew you into being an english major in the first place? Was it the critical essays your teachers made you read? Or was it the literature? Was it discussing eternal and enlightening truths buried in the novel or poem, or was it the political games and ass-kissing required to gain acceptance among your peers?
I'll admit that these questions are rigged, but I would be so bold as to say that 99% of students and professors would answer these questions in the same way. And this isn't a new thing to me, I've known all along that I would have to sacrifice some of my creativity, or pay the piper in order to become a teacher, but it isn't until recently that I have actually started questioning whether or not it's worth it.
No one becomes an english major because they like writing stuffy academic prose or because they appreciate the mazes of "educated" jargon and gobbledygook that pervade millions of books and essays. But as a result of the acceptance of wordy blather in the PhD community, English majors are slowly chastised and coerced into writing and thinking this way because Professors are seeking to clone themselves.
Consequently, I would also be so bold as to say that all English majors experience the "what the hell did I just read?" essay at least once. This is the essay that is so incomprehensible and try-hard that it ends up saying nothing at all in a very fancy way. Consider this passage from Mikhail Bakhtin:
"The strength and at the same time the limitations of such basic stylistic categories become apparent when such categories are seen as conditioned by specific historical destinies and by the task that an ideological discourse assumes. These categories arose from and were shaped by the historically "aktuell" forces at work in the verbal-ideological evolution of specific social groups; they comprised the theoretical express of actualizing forces that were in the process of creating a life for language."
I rest my case. He might be saying some wonderful and grand things, but the only people willing to take the time to unpack that mess are professors with nothing better to do, and no talent for actually "creating a life for language."
My point is that I am done pretending not to care about money while inserting myself into a career path simply for the money and not because I love it. At first, when nothing was at stake in the 100 and 200 level courses I had fun immersing myself in the literature. But now that things are more serious and I encounter more jaded professors trying to groom their students into literary cronies by grading them down for not being "like them," I find that I am unhappy. What I mean is that I am no longer graded on the originality or merit of my ideas, but on how well I conform to the rigors of the academic prose, "proper form," and that muddy term they label "scholarship." I could say the same thing that has been written a thousand times and still get an A if I make it dense enough.
Granted, there are professors out there who haven't lost the vision, and to those last few brave souls, I applaud you. What I guess I'm really saying is that I am going back to writing. Not for anyone else, or for money, but because I love it, I'm good at it, and it makes me happy. And if I must provide for a family, I'll do this.
[Keep Following. It's about to get all kinds of active up in hee.]
Showing posts with label "So much Death". Show all posts
Showing posts with label "So much Death". Show all posts
15 December 2011
01 November 2011
A Halloween Dream
I saw a dark hallway, the walls close, yet distant; a palpable night pervaded the place; its portals attended by nurses with dead eyes, their white coats cast in dim fluorescence. They bid me wordlessly onward and I did glide into the deep. My will was vapor before my curiousity. But as soon as the blackness beyond the metal gate met my eye, I wished to turn back. My heart began to flail and flutter and my stomach churned with apprehension.
My sight was dim and a rushing wind deafened my ears to all but my blood pumping. I was pulled deeper and deeper into the throat of what seemed to be a malevolent force. My hairs stood up as when you know you are being watched, but not from where. I felt the weight of a city above me, their sins and filth sliding down the floor beneath me, and I knew part of it was mine. I cried out for help, but was heard of no one. Time ticked itself to death and I knew I was alone. I slowed and was driven to me knees; dumped by whatever was carrying me. The cold stone seemed to swallow me and my heart slowed. I could hear my breaths echo as if off a wall or a presence directly in front of me, so close it made me quiver. But against all my apprehension, I reached out and felt nothing. The space was terrifying, and hungry. It drove from me all love and replaced it with crippling emptiness. I gave into despair and began to crawl. How long I crawled I do not know. Only that I crawled across the ripping cold stone until my palms bled. My tears burned cold trails down my cheeks.
And then I heard, as it were, the rushing of water. I began to claw my way to the noise, a small candle of hope began to flicker inside me. I called out to it, wanting there to be someone, something to hear me. The flowing noise got quieter as I approached. I reached out to the slight trickle to feel it. There was a rough stone wall before me and over its edge flowed a steady sheet of warm water. I became suddenly aware that my tongue was dry. No normal thirst it was. It was as a desert burning hot and dry inside me. And I made to scoop the water into my mouth as only one who is dying of thirst can. Frantically I pawed it into my mouth and then put my lips to the fountain and drank deeply for some time. All else did not matter, the glory of the drink was the only thing. It was all I had. Then, slowly, I began to taste. It was unlike any water I had before tasted. But somehow familiar; almost metallic. And then I knew it. It was not water at all. It was blood.
It ran its ponderous way down all the walls around me. I wretched, and wretched again. But nothing could cleanse me. And I was suddenly sure where I was; not in the sense that we know to be a surety of place, but I knew exactly where I was not.
I began to shake violently. It was not a cold shiver or a fear tremble but a soul-shudder that had its roots deep inside me. I looked at my trembling hands and saw only shadow until they slowly materialized before me. I hardly recognized them, torn and blood-covered as they were. I sobbed as I stared and the deep realization came to me that I did not know who I had become. They were murderous hands. I saw them more clearly. The turning shadows my hands cast were projected onto the black stone behind them. There was light. It was a dark maroon shade coming from behind me. I wheeled and cried out when I saw the source.
A figure in a grey cloak held a grim lantern in his hand. Its slats were thin and jagged. The figure grasped it by a thorn-covered handle. The light was peculiar, unlike anything I had ever seen. But it was wonderful to see anything but darkness. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to the figure. As I approached I felt the air become colder. His hands were bone-thin and pale. And under his hood his face was weary and time worn. Great wrinkles crossed his translucent skin. I asked him to help me. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and let out a death-rattle. The sound pierced me to the core. I slunk away terrified but he followed me. His light was just enough to help me puzzle out my surroundings. He followed behind me as I began to run deeper into the place.
The hall soon opened into an enormous chamber supported by great looming square pillars. I felt that I needed to cling close to them, as the open space scared me more than the narrow hallway I was in before. I looked up and saw the pillars disappear into a black void. My instincts told me to huddle down on the floor. A reverse-vertigo took hold of me and I crawled over to the nearest pillar. I felt something move beneath my hands. I looked deep into the black surface and saw nothing. Suddenly a serene face appeared. I felt it was akin to mine own, save for the grey thinning hair. As the face got closer, it changed. The skin sloughed off in great chunks and left only a skull. I gasped as I withdrew and I saw that inside all the pillars I could see half-rotted corpses writhing in silent agony.
I turned to find the grey man pointing towards the center of the chamber. I followed his directive. I timidly made my way to the center, half-terrified and morbidly curious as to what I would find there. A pain-wracked shriek pierced the silence. And again I hid behind the nearest pillar, despite the horrors that were contained inside.
As I looked around the side of the pillar I realized I could see my breath. I covered my mouth to hide the mist and viewed the scene of horror before me. Black insect-like creatures covered an enormous ghastly machine. They chittered and clacked over its surface. Great beasts they were, half shadow and half spiked armor. They knew their business well. They were directed by a man in white. He stood on a platform of bodies well above them. His booming voice was a language I had never heard. One by one, the insects pulled a man or woman from the nearest pillar and pushed the poor screaming soul into the machine. They were soon silenced. I did not know what the machine was, but it seemed to be a sort of reverse baptism. I could take it no longer. I wished to die or be free of the place.
So I stepped from my hiding place and the man in white snapped his head in my direction and stared at me with piercing coldness. His gaze was tangible, it felt as if he could grab my throat and snap me like a twig. My knees buckled and my hair raised. He said, "You do not belong here..." Icy tears ran into my mouth and down my neck as I ran from the place. Faster and faster I ran. Until my lungs burned and my heart was about to burst. Soon I was gliding again. I could hear the man in white laughing behind me from deep within the chamber. It was not jovial, but hateful and full spite. "You do not belong here... yet," he screamed, "leave now!"
Soon the familiar fluorescent light and white-clad nurses greeted me again. And I woke with a cold sweat.
[Keep Following. Yes, this was actually a dream I had. Also, I'm growing a mustache.]
My sight was dim and a rushing wind deafened my ears to all but my blood pumping. I was pulled deeper and deeper into the throat of what seemed to be a malevolent force. My hairs stood up as when you know you are being watched, but not from where. I felt the weight of a city above me, their sins and filth sliding down the floor beneath me, and I knew part of it was mine. I cried out for help, but was heard of no one. Time ticked itself to death and I knew I was alone. I slowed and was driven to me knees; dumped by whatever was carrying me. The cold stone seemed to swallow me and my heart slowed. I could hear my breaths echo as if off a wall or a presence directly in front of me, so close it made me quiver. But against all my apprehension, I reached out and felt nothing. The space was terrifying, and hungry. It drove from me all love and replaced it with crippling emptiness. I gave into despair and began to crawl. How long I crawled I do not know. Only that I crawled across the ripping cold stone until my palms bled. My tears burned cold trails down my cheeks.
And then I heard, as it were, the rushing of water. I began to claw my way to the noise, a small candle of hope began to flicker inside me. I called out to it, wanting there to be someone, something to hear me. The flowing noise got quieter as I approached. I reached out to the slight trickle to feel it. There was a rough stone wall before me and over its edge flowed a steady sheet of warm water. I became suddenly aware that my tongue was dry. No normal thirst it was. It was as a desert burning hot and dry inside me. And I made to scoop the water into my mouth as only one who is dying of thirst can. Frantically I pawed it into my mouth and then put my lips to the fountain and drank deeply for some time. All else did not matter, the glory of the drink was the only thing. It was all I had. Then, slowly, I began to taste. It was unlike any water I had before tasted. But somehow familiar; almost metallic. And then I knew it. It was not water at all. It was blood.
It ran its ponderous way down all the walls around me. I wretched, and wretched again. But nothing could cleanse me. And I was suddenly sure where I was; not in the sense that we know to be a surety of place, but I knew exactly where I was not.
I began to shake violently. It was not a cold shiver or a fear tremble but a soul-shudder that had its roots deep inside me. I looked at my trembling hands and saw only shadow until they slowly materialized before me. I hardly recognized them, torn and blood-covered as they were. I sobbed as I stared and the deep realization came to me that I did not know who I had become. They were murderous hands. I saw them more clearly. The turning shadows my hands cast were projected onto the black stone behind them. There was light. It was a dark maroon shade coming from behind me. I wheeled and cried out when I saw the source.
A figure in a grey cloak held a grim lantern in his hand. Its slats were thin and jagged. The figure grasped it by a thorn-covered handle. The light was peculiar, unlike anything I had ever seen. But it was wonderful to see anything but darkness. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to the figure. As I approached I felt the air become colder. His hands were bone-thin and pale. And under his hood his face was weary and time worn. Great wrinkles crossed his translucent skin. I asked him to help me. He opened his mouth unnaturally wide and let out a death-rattle. The sound pierced me to the core. I slunk away terrified but he followed me. His light was just enough to help me puzzle out my surroundings. He followed behind me as I began to run deeper into the place.
The hall soon opened into an enormous chamber supported by great looming square pillars. I felt that I needed to cling close to them, as the open space scared me more than the narrow hallway I was in before. I looked up and saw the pillars disappear into a black void. My instincts told me to huddle down on the floor. A reverse-vertigo took hold of me and I crawled over to the nearest pillar. I felt something move beneath my hands. I looked deep into the black surface and saw nothing. Suddenly a serene face appeared. I felt it was akin to mine own, save for the grey thinning hair. As the face got closer, it changed. The skin sloughed off in great chunks and left only a skull. I gasped as I withdrew and I saw that inside all the pillars I could see half-rotted corpses writhing in silent agony.
I turned to find the grey man pointing towards the center of the chamber. I followed his directive. I timidly made my way to the center, half-terrified and morbidly curious as to what I would find there. A pain-wracked shriek pierced the silence. And again I hid behind the nearest pillar, despite the horrors that were contained inside.
As I looked around the side of the pillar I realized I could see my breath. I covered my mouth to hide the mist and viewed the scene of horror before me. Black insect-like creatures covered an enormous ghastly machine. They chittered and clacked over its surface. Great beasts they were, half shadow and half spiked armor. They knew their business well. They were directed by a man in white. He stood on a platform of bodies well above them. His booming voice was a language I had never heard. One by one, the insects pulled a man or woman from the nearest pillar and pushed the poor screaming soul into the machine. They were soon silenced. I did not know what the machine was, but it seemed to be a sort of reverse baptism. I could take it no longer. I wished to die or be free of the place.
So I stepped from my hiding place and the man in white snapped his head in my direction and stared at me with piercing coldness. His gaze was tangible, it felt as if he could grab my throat and snap me like a twig. My knees buckled and my hair raised. He said, "You do not belong here..." Icy tears ran into my mouth and down my neck as I ran from the place. Faster and faster I ran. Until my lungs burned and my heart was about to burst. Soon I was gliding again. I could hear the man in white laughing behind me from deep within the chamber. It was not jovial, but hateful and full spite. "You do not belong here... yet," he screamed, "leave now!"
Soon the familiar fluorescent light and white-clad nurses greeted me again. And I woke with a cold sweat.
[Keep Following. Yes, this was actually a dream I had. Also, I'm growing a mustache.]
26 January 2011
Poetry Masterwork
So I'm in a creative writing class right now and I just turned this in today as my "Poetry Masterwork." So this is the best I can do at this point. Let me know what you think.
[Keep following, cuz they be rapin' 'errbody up in here.]
On Arriving Home
A prevailing wind brings with it hints of pressed olives and sun-raised wheat—
the smells of Ithaca.
It fills the sails with speeded flight and caresses time-torn faces.
Of home it breathes, of solace it sings.
The gentle waves lap at the hull,
and push and glide the leaning shoulders to familiar shores.
These few eager travelers, orphaned by fate—
they all smile and thrill—
all but one.
This Odysseus finds a full home so empty,
halls lined with profane suitors
no baptism of blood can purify.
For this warrior has been bathed in flame;
Has borne a bronze crucible—bears it with him still—
battlefields in mind and memory of soul-cracking horror.
find it hard to embrace old companions,
muscle-memory gone, replaced by scars and sinew and salt.
The tired years pass and he now holds a squalling child, where dying men had lain,
And looks past the uneven ends of a stolen life,
on to the horizon, the call of which beckons still.[Keep following, cuz they be rapin' 'errbody up in here.]
06 December 2010
I'm (Almost) Back.
This isn't a real post. Sorry to disappoint all of you who have been so patiently waiting. And I know you've been waiting. I looked at my Google analytics readout, and despite the notice I gave about not blogging for the whole month of November, I still only had 5 days during the month when no one visited my blog. I don't know whether to laugh at you losers that had nothing better to do than visit a stagnant blog or to thank you for being so dedicated. So I guess I'll do both: HAHA. Thanks so much!
To those of you who are wondering how NaNoWriMo went, I have an answer. My expectations weren't not exceeded further than possibly allowable considering the dire circumstances under which the writer found himself inevitably placed. Moving on...
Finals are coming, and I'm beginning to find that "the soothing light at the end of [my] tunnel / is just a freight train comin' [my] way." Which is why this is only a slight, poorly written, hold-over post until I can scoop my brains from the pavement and get my bearings again once finals are over.
The good thing about this hiatus has been that I now have a few good ideas for new posts. Be excited.
[Keep following, there's always next time.]
To those of you who are wondering how NaNoWriMo went, I have an answer. My expectations weren't not exceeded further than possibly allowable considering the dire circumstances under which the writer found himself inevitably placed. Moving on...
Finals are coming, and I'm beginning to find that "the soothing light at the end of [my] tunnel / is just a freight train comin' [my] way." Which is why this is only a slight, poorly written, hold-over post until I can scoop my brains from the pavement and get my bearings again once finals are over.
The good thing about this hiatus has been that I now have a few good ideas for new posts. Be excited.
[Keep following, there's always next time.]
26 October 2010
I Share Something With The Greats.
What do Paul Dunbar, Washington Irving, Samuel Johnson, Franz Kafka, John Keats, D. H. Lawrence, Molière, George Orwell, Alexander Pope, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Louis Stevenson, Henry David Thoreau, Voltaire, a vast majority of Bronte Sisters, Igor Stravinsky, John Calvin and DJ Scheerer have in common?
If you guessed Tuberculosis, you get nothing!
TB is one of those diseases that you hear about, but seems like a distant fantasy; the plague of days gone by and people unknown. The sickness of those of lower socioeconomic status. What you didn't know is that TB is alive and well. "The Consumption," as I am privileged to now call it, is far from eradicated. Over half a million new cases of drug resistant TB are diagnosed worldwide every year.
I was almost one of them.
Upon arriving--home (oooh!) from my mission I had to get the mandatory TB skin test. This consists of the awesome idea of injecting a strain of the disease into your skin. If your body reacts to the infectious disease sitting in a bubble beneath the first few layers of dermis, it means your body recognizes the disease and you have most likely been exposed to TB.
I got the blob injected me and came back in a week, ready to proceed with life, when the nurse assigned to analyze the test recoiled when I pulled up my sleeve. There is only one way to describe her face during that moment. You know the look your mom gave you the first time you swore at her as a teenager? Not the look right after when she swats you with the fly-swatter, I'm talking about the exact moment the four letters leap from your tongue. The surprise and confusion and horror and disgust all at the same time? The nurse's face was something like that. I felt like I needed to apologize.
Anyway, after shooting some X-rays into my chest, giving me way too much literature and things to sign, solemnly interrogating/consoling me and sufficiently scaring the hell out of me, I was told I had latent TB and that I would most likely die of "The Consumption" sometime before my mid-life crisis. That is, if I didn't go on an intense regimen of antibiotics.
Eventually after making it to Provo, they did a blood test, and found that, no, I didn't have latent "The Consumption" after all. What most likely happened is that I had a false positive on my skin test. I don't know how my skin could have possibly gotten irritated and swollen after they stabbed me with a toxic disease-filled needle. It makes no sense at all.
I was relieved and saddened; knowing that I would live longer but most likely never achieve musical, religious, or literary greatness. So here's to all those great famous persons who've gone before and established the greatest heap of bloody handkerchiefs ever created. I may never write something worth reading, but I now know that if I ever need to get inspired, I'll simply go to sub-Saharan Africa or China and let someone cough in my face.
[Keep following, you might learn something.]
If you guessed Tuberculosis, you get nothing!
TB is one of those diseases that you hear about, but seems like a distant fantasy; the plague of days gone by and people unknown. The sickness of those of lower socioeconomic status. What you didn't know is that TB is alive and well. "The Consumption," as I am privileged to now call it, is far from eradicated. Over half a million new cases of drug resistant TB are diagnosed worldwide every year.
I was almost one of them.
Upon arriving--home (oooh!) from my mission I had to get the mandatory TB skin test. This consists of the awesome idea of injecting a strain of the disease into your skin. If your body reacts to the infectious disease sitting in a bubble beneath the first few layers of dermis, it means your body recognizes the disease and you have most likely been exposed to TB.
I got the blob injected me and came back in a week, ready to proceed with life, when the nurse assigned to analyze the test recoiled when I pulled up my sleeve. There is only one way to describe her face during that moment. You know the look your mom gave you the first time you swore at her as a teenager? Not the look right after when she swats you with the fly-swatter, I'm talking about the exact moment the four letters leap from your tongue. The surprise and confusion and horror and disgust all at the same time? The nurse's face was something like that. I felt like I needed to apologize.
Anyway, after shooting some X-rays into my chest, giving me way too much literature and things to sign, solemnly interrogating/consoling me and sufficiently scaring the hell out of me, I was told I had latent TB and that I would most likely die of "The Consumption" sometime before my mid-life crisis. That is, if I didn't go on an intense regimen of antibiotics.
Eventually after making it to Provo, they did a blood test, and found that, no, I didn't have latent "The Consumption" after all. What most likely happened is that I had a false positive on my skin test. I don't know how my skin could have possibly gotten irritated and swollen after they stabbed me with a toxic disease-filled needle. It makes no sense at all.
I was relieved and saddened; knowing that I would live longer but most likely never achieve musical, religious, or literary greatness. So here's to all those great famous persons who've gone before and established the greatest heap of bloody handkerchiefs ever created. I may never write something worth reading, but I now know that if I ever need to get inspired, I'll simply go to sub-Saharan Africa or China and let someone cough in my face.
[Keep following, you might learn something.]
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