A Single Layer

Below are a very few photos from my sister's wedding a few weeks ago. They mostly have to do with me, since this is my blog, and many who read it do not know my sister. She was beautiful, though. And the wedding was lovely. I think she's putting on glitter... check out that hair! Now, how do I do that again? Reading Muir during the ceremony... the Bride... the Groom... happiness... More Bride and Groom... more happiness... Cowering in fear? Chill out, me. They're only flowers. Is the danger past? Not quite... Yes, Dad is actually removing the groomsmen's celebrations from his car windows. And rightly so! Some of them weren't quite the thing.

Bags are packed yet again. Well, technically, I'm only bringing one bag, hoping I can manage to carry it on the whole way there and back again. This time for the wedding of Stuart and Nicole. It will be good to see everyone again, and good to get some reading done on the plane and train, especially as I've done absolutely no reading at all done today. The culprit? Check out the title to this present entry. You know it. The killer of reasonable time. The black hole of internet blog addiction. What exactly are the rules of etiquette relating to weblog usage? What's all this "prove to me I am your friend" business? These exclusive circles, all the many things we create out of our well-founded fears... What I will be doing tomorrow: taking a train to London. What I will be reading tomorrow: Thomas Pynchon's V . What I will be listening to tomorrow: Sufjan's Illinois . Berry (maybe). Leonard Cohen. Lovelovelove.

I have officially moved to a new flat. Everything is cleaner and quieter, though the noise was never an issue before. I like the situation of my room, and I have arranged the furniture in a very pleasing manner. When I have cleared the floor of all my drying laundry, I will be sure to take a photo. It is a Friday night, and I am not out at a pub this time. It has been a long week, and I decided to curl up with some hot cocoa and a dvd. What shall I watch? Flatmate-Jess will have to choose, or at least select a few options, as we will watch together. That, and she is our own personal Blockbuster. To add to the stock of news, I have more or less decided to go to Rome for Christmas. A crazy choice, as I will probably be going alone. But there is no room for fear, no room for confusion, and no room for loneliness. Rome must be seen. Before that, and before papers, and before anything else, really, I will be going home again. In three days. I'll take a train to London on Tuesday, which

I have officially put in a request to transfer accomodations. Though I have not requested to go far. Simply up a flight of stairs and on the other side of the hall. These are my reasons: They seem like rather compelling reasons to me. I should have taken a picture of the inside of the microwave... that was interesting. (Note the presence of cleaning spray upon the counter. Also worth noting, that it doesn't get much use.)

from Alexander Pope's "An Essay on Man," of which... Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, A being darkly wise and rudely great: With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side, With too much weakness for the Stoic's pride, He hangs between, in doubt to act or rest; In doubt to deem himself a God or Beast; In doubt his mind or body to prefer; Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err; Alike in ignorance, his reason such, Whether he thinks too little or too much; Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall: Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd; The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

What is with the ahistorical writing of the post-WWI generation? They synthesize all the violence of their experience into a narrative without ever actually naming the source of the tension. This is the case in Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and now Jean Rhys. (Not "now," really. but I did just read her.) The Post-WWII generation was not so dismissive. Not to say that the previous generation was dismissive, but they were struck somewhat silent about the specifics. Shock. Is that the kind of shock that Walter Benjamin was talking about? I did not understand that bit. Post WWII, they were shocked, but there seemed to be two responding alternatives. One, the reversion to a narrative of fallen enemy vs. victorious righteous ones. Not necessarily a simplification of the experience, but a making-palatable. Two, the testimony of horror. In this case, they were not stricken silent, but rather compelled to give some kind of witness. Weisel and Levi are examples of this. Not that I'm study

I have returned from witnessing the blessed union of my sister, Emily Clare, with the great and huggable Chris Ritchey. Oh my goodness... she's not Emily Lewis anymore. Crazy pants. Emily Ritchey. That does have a good sound to it; it is a good name. Anyway, the wedding was lovely, and I will expound on it in due course. When I have half a brain to attend to it. At present, I am full of travel woes, though they are over. I am full of them, because I am weary from them. The trip was rather monotonous in its delays. If you care to hear, I will account for the passage of the last two days. This is how it goes: I woke at five a.m. on Monday in order to make a seven o'clock flight from Palm Springs to Edinburgh via Houston and Newark. On the way to the airport, my brother gets a call saying that the flight has been delayed an hour. I let him drop me off anyway, and wait the extra hour in the airport. The plane leaves, but the storms in Houston (which caused the original delay of th

I am going home tomorrow morning. This is a strange idea. It will be a stranger reality. I am glad to go home, glad to step away from this world for just a moment, to better see it new and fresh but familiar when I return. More than this, I am glad for my sister's wedding. Glad for the vows, the strange appearance of extended family members, the green skirt. Glad for seeing my brother and my mother and everyone. Glad for the twos-on-twos. On the airplane, I will do my best to blitz through Samuel Richardson's Pamela. I will ignore the assigned readings of Foucault's "The Deployment of Sexuality," in part because I couldn't get it at the library and because I don't want to buy it, but most of all because I simply don't want to read it. I will read the essay by Adorno instead, and the chapter of Adorno and Horkheimer that I couldn't finish last night. I will listed to Rob D on my iPod. I will buy an overpriced sandwich in the airport. One of the airp

Cohen is wooing my ears, and I am wondering if perhaps Hume can wait.

This morning, I woke up to the most incredibly loud and horrible noise coming from outside my window. A tree obscured the view for a while; I could not see what was going on. When the noise abated, I saw a truck pull forward slowly with a man behind it, holding a hose (connected to the truck) with one end bright as with flame. He was walking very slowly, and this fire stick-hose was blowing like a leaf-blower onto the pavement. But it was not a leaf-blower, because he was going very slowly, and he wasn't trying to get rid of the leaves. I could not see what it was supposed to be doing. Does anyone know? Please tell. Yesterday was fun. It was Liesl's birthday, so I taught Lucy Liu how to make a carrot cake. Oh divine! We also saw The Devil Wears Prada and ate at a very posh Mexican food place. Everything tasted amazingly good, but at the same time, nothing tasted quite right. In a good way. In the sense that we were eating Mexican food in Scotland. So of course it won't tas

I am sitting in a cafe (Beanscene--very hip), reading Crusoe , and stealing glances at the passing world. There is a great French door open to the street just to my right. No one is walking through it; it is my own great window onto Nicolson Street. Across the street, The Militant workers hand out papers set up on their windy table--a sign hanging between them reads "Defend and Emulate the Cuban Revolution." Is it wrong for me to be thinking, 'how quaint...'? People are in jackets, vests, and knit hats already; it is not very cold. They are over-eager for winter. I hum the Jesus Prayer in my mind: 'Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me...' The cars here are so small. The old men are so interesting in their plaid working shirts, their wispy white hair. The children are so beautiful. Why are American children always hidden away? People are so beautiful and sad (I like to stare at them, waiting for them to glance back. It is a strange triumph when they

I have included, to the left of all this nonsense, several links to a variety of pages of present interest or necessity to me. There you will find a link to my sister's wedding blog, the premier website on Marx, and a variety of other things (more to come, of course). The Marx, Hume, Pitkin, and Locke sites all link to essays that I am presently reading or rereading for my academic pursuits. Here are some questions I have to consider for next Wednesday's course. 1. Try to extract the central ideas from Adorno and Horkheimer. What version or versions of the enlightenment project are described here? 2. Compare Defoe’s story to Locke’s second treatise. Within a few pages Defoe says both that he was “reduced to a mere state of nature” and that “I might call my self King, or Emperor over the whole Country”. What are the politics of Crusoe’s island? Think especially about his relation to Friday, of course. 3. To sum up one of the topics discussed in this weeks’ seminar: Loc

There is nothing like a grocery store for entertainment. Here are some of the odd things one finds: Tiger Prawn Gourmet Pringles (see chips exerpt below; the word is "posh") An entire aisle devoted to yogurt An entire aisle devoted to tea cookies (and another to tea) Microwavable Yorkshire puddings Tomato paste in a tube Clotted cream (say that with me, if you will. "clotted cream") Outdated food on the bargain racks Two varieties of salsa One variety of tortilla chips (feel free to correct me, Jess and Liesl) Orange juice valued at five dollars a carton Kashi cheaper than Cocoa Puffs No shortening? and where are the chocolate chips? Refrigerated pasta and much more.

It is the second week of real courses, and I have at last spoken up in the group. Granted, it was my assignment to speak. I volunteered to be the first to introduce the week's reading. This meant that I read very closely and carefully, and that I spent many hours last night working out precisely what I would say--and the very tones in which I would say it. I remembered all that I had planned (mostly because I had it written out very clearly in front of me), but I let slip the precisely practiced tones. I was monotonous. Even afterward, as five us went to get a sip of coffee, that conversational monotony held on. Will these people ever know me? Why have I constructed such a wall? I can be jovial, personal, nerdishly hip... but I am shy. Where did that come from? I have not been shy since high school. (Excepting the one lunch I had with Dr Lundin, in which I had nothing to say and knew not how to say even that.) Perhaps I am afraid of the World. I feel there is nothing in common? I a

"...for a little pure truth, a little unflinching application of simple truth to life, the heart cried out ceaselessly." P. 82 (D.H.Lawrence, Women in Love )

Description: boy, grey, very cute kitten. Wanted: a strong name. To the rescue!: Dartmouth Rhombus (don't mind if I do, Jesse) Farquad Burlesque Bruce Rubicon Marcus Dwayne Nelson Eric the Red Pinto Thor Rover Steve Jackaroo Lyman Tchaikovsky Austere Mouse (Please contribute in the comment section as you have alternate ideas.)

This morning, over a bowl of Swiss muesli, I told Lucy Liu about Jesus.