Space: the Only Frontier

One of the things I've appreciated most about my last three years of graduate studies is that you always come out of it with something. Sometimes what you take from it is a larger understanding of literature as a whole, like the class on Woolfe (not to detract from the point, but I wrote Woofle the first time, and felt I needed to mention that) and modernism I sat in on last year. Sometimes what you get out of it seems mainly to be fodder for other papers--JJ Rousseau, I'm looking at you here. And sometimes you don't know what you get out of it, other than a pretty awesome set of books to read--like the cyberpunk course this term.

And all of this, of course, is the preamble to the discussion at hand. One of the main things I got out of the spatial theory and practice course I took this term (last term, almost, now) is a greater level of observation when it comes to my own interaction with space.

I used to take a perverse pride in being the sort of guy who doesn't care a lot about his personal surroundings. In a small way, that was a necessity: I went straight from three years of a one room dorm to four years with a guy who was somewhat less than open when it came to sharing models of decor (I picked the wallpaper once, and I still have not been forgiven.). But there's some truth in me just not caring: since my initial move here, I haven't contributed anything new to my apartment's furniture, and I don't really feel the need to do so. It's my space, but I personalize it through inhabiting it, and that's it.

At the same time, I think to say for any person that space isn't important to him or her rings false. It's like saying that air isn't important. You may not notice it all the time, but change it significantly enough, and suddenly it'll be the most important thing in the world. I think from this blog, my lovely readers could quickly put together a list of all the spaces important to me. There's cyberspace, the very medium we're communicating on. There's home space. But does that mean my oft-talked about home in Saskatchewan (and which home in Saskatchewan?), or my apartment in Ontario? Or just some abstract idea of home that can't be made into reality? There's the university, both the physical, concrete spaces where I take my classes and try to avoid dancing in the halls, and there's the university in the abstract sense, the institution of rules and strictures (again, not to digress, but I was almost sure I was making the word 'stricture' up) that regulate acceptable behaviour.

Then again, every space has its own set of rules of behaviour, even if it's just the rules you make up for it. Which is another way of me saying we're going to edge a little closer to the real topic. (And note the use of spatial metaphor to describe progression through a discussion that occupies space in that metaphoric sense, as well as the physical space the text takes up in the screen and the storage space the actual bits and bytes take up elsewhere.) I went out to a friend's birthday celebration last night, and, given that friend's predilections, it's no surprise that the night's plans centered heavily around dancing at a club. And the number of spatial issues just seemed to multiply. First, the weather at Blank was cats-and-dogs level raining, so it looked for a bit like it was going to be cancelled. Then there was the cab ride over to another friend's place for pre-dancing festivities. This came with its own set of perscribed social rules. Would I bring something to drink beforehand, and is this the expected social protocol? (No and Yes, as it turns out.) Then, because there was a concert at the club, we didn't bother going out until the concert was over. In other words, until that concert was over, it was a different space than the one we wanted to inhabit.

Finally, we get to club, and at this point, I make up one of my own socio-spatial rules. The appropriate behaviour for a dance club, of course, is dancing. But it's not the only appropriate behaviour. You are allowed to step outside to smoke, to the washrooms to answer nature's call, to the more secluded areas to chat up pretty young things, and to the tables to drink. Any space proximate to alcohol makes a man's washroom a place you don't want to be, so that was out. Out of all the reasons to take up smoking, most of which are fairly poor, avoiding dancing seems like a particularly bad move. And chatting up pretty young things will require the development of a skill set at least as elaborate as the dancing itself. So that lead to the formulation of my spatial rule: as long as I had a drink in front of me, I didn't have to dance.

Now, the interesting thing about a rule like that is that six long island ice teas later, all the other socio-spatial practices that one ruled out suddenly become more appealing. Chatting up pretty young things becomes simpler when you lose your inhibition not to talk about sci-fi in front of them (note I said simpler, not more productive). The washroom becomes a necessity. Even dance loses some of its horror. I still don't smoke, though. Don't see the point, frankly.

And somewhere around that last drink, your spatial awareness becomes such that it seems like a really, really good idea to show that physical environment who's boss and run home in the pouring rain. And so you do. And, despite all logical arguments you have the next day, it was a good idea.

...I'm trying to draw all these threads together here, but it seems kind of loose. Hmm. Let's try this: Spend time in spaces filled with interesting people and Long Island Ice Teas. The other details take care of themselves.
Yeah, that works.

Later Days.

Take your youthful exuberence and get out.

In part of my ongoing efforts to stave off the ogre that is boredom, I've taken to running to the U of Blank and back every day to check my mail. And while wandering the backhalls to get to the mailroom (profs aren't really impressed running into students that are dripping sweat, you know), I inevitably must push my way through a small ocean of prepubescent, often giggling, girls.

The English department, along with most of the other arts departments on campus, are in a building that includes a large theatre, a theatre that the university rents out on a fairly regular basis, as part of an ongoing plan to stay in touch with the community at large and profit from doing so. At the moment, that means for the past week or so, the halls have been filled with young girls preparing for dance recitals. And how are the esteemed professors reacting to this invasion of space? Well, as people who have devoted their lives to the greater understanding of the human condition, surely they are intrigued by the option to experience a widespread social phenomenon first hand, right?

Good lord, no.

In the professors' defence, it IS April, which means quite a lot of them are here to do marking and grading in peace and quiet, and if there's one word to describe an eleven year old girl at a dance recital, "quiet" is not it. But I'm not quite sure they needed to go so far as produce signs:

Please avoid any and all dancing in the halls.
Faculty and staff are trying to work.

The emphasis, by the way, is not mine. The best part, I think, is that it is a warning to everyone, not just the kids, not to dance in the halls. And whether the signs are necessary or not, and whether they have produced the desired effect or not, I personally am very, very glad that they are there. I especially hope they stay up after the little girls have packed up their tights and gone home. Wouldn't you want to work in a department where it was necessary to have a sign like that up all year round? Just in case someone burst spontaneously into dance?

I know I would.

And I don't even like dancing.

Later Days.

Kids, Always Remember to Wear Gloves

I've been looking back over "review" style posts, and one thing that seems to be relatively scarce is reviews of TV shows that I'm watching, which, frankly, is odd, because between you, me, and the lamppost, I watch a lot of TV. It's possible that I've spent more time watching TV in a given week than reading books (you know, my actual work), reading comics, and playing video games and watching movies all together. I justify this huge time-hole by the statement (and truth, BTW) that the driving impetus behind virtually all my academic work is the observation and dissection of narrative discourse, and TV falls into that category (well, technically, all experience falls into that category, but TV gets included.) At the moment, I'm deeply committed to a plethora of shows that includes Big Bang Theory, Full Metal Alchemist, and Batman: Brave and the Bold, all quality television. But the big *MOMENT* of this week (and I'll admit, the week's not over yet, there's still the big Thursday Night shows) comes from a fond favorite, Chuck.

Not a lot of people know about Chuck, which is always disappointing to me. It's a great show. It combines romance, comedy, and action in a way that hasn't been done consistently on television since Alias started sucking a few years back. The plot is fairly simple: through the show's one and usually only sci-fi twist, Chuck Bartowski, nice-guy and all-around loser who's wasting his life at a low level tech job at a Future Shop equivalent--accidentally gets the CIA mainframe hardwired into his brain. Now, he has a secret life as a government James Bond-esque spy that he needs to balance with his regular life, and two handlers: the romantic/platonic interest, Sarah, and the gruff Casey (played by the always great Adam Baldwin). The show is deftly supported by a wonderful supporting cast, which includes the general giving them their marching orders, Chuck's high achieving doctor/sister and her boyfriend Captain Awesome (long story) and Chuck's fellow BuyMore employees, which include a post Arrested Development Tony Hale. Other current, ridiculously cool guest stars include Quantum Leap's Scott Bakula (we don't talk about Enterprise) as Chuck's father, and Chevy Chase as the leader of the evil terrorist group Fulcrum.

And that's part of the show's current problem. For reasons that I can't fathom, the show's ratings have struggled this season--I blame the fact that it's been shackled to its partner show, the great big bowl of suck that Heroes has become. And rumour has it that it needs to cut down on its huge, awesome cast, because it takes up a lot of cash. So it's got two things against it. But it's a Josh Schwartz production, and, season 3 of the OC beside, that means between this and his other show, Gossip Girl, you're guaranteed an hour of goodness.

Normally, even though the episode of Chuck will be good in a given week, it will be eclipsed by the sheer incredible genius of Gossip Girl. But this week, it was the other way around. Aside from vast, show-altering spoiler-ridden developments, my favorite part came in the early scenes. The platonic relationship between Chuck and Sara suddenly becomes much less platonic. They're currently on the lam, and do the traditionally charged "bed sharing moment," and wake up with the comedy gold that is unintentional spooning--and then the show goes somewhere else. I found a video that I'm putting below:


As you can see, the comedy transitions into saccharine hand-holding, which in turn goes to hot-and-heavy, which goes back to comedy, with the traditional "IOU one Condom." I'm not sure if this clip can entirely convey what is basically the end result of two seasons of build-up, but it really struck me as a wonderful scene. It's the sweetest thing on television since Pushing Daisies was canceled, and it segues into the most erotically charged scene on television since... um... well, since the last episode of Gossip Girl.
The whole thing reminds me of an episode of another wonderful Monday night show, which I'll be blogging about sooner or later at much greater length: How I Met Your Mother. Specifically, the episode where Ted gives a toned-down version of Marshall and Lily's reunion, featuring them hanging out in a bar at a very reasonable time, drinking glasses of "milk," and "holding hands," which builds until another character goes to the washroom, and catches them "holding hands" in a bathroom stall.

HIMYM: classiest show on television.

Two good shows. Watch 'em, and know quality.

Later Days.

Book Review: A Saving Grace by Lorna Crozier

First: Went to a Karaoke bar last night. A fun time was had by all. I sang "Everything You Want" by Vertical Horizon, and a tragically shortened version of the "Muppet Show." I had put in a bid to sing "Pretty Fly For a White Guy," but my ride and I left at 2:00 am before the song was called. Moral: bribe the MC.

And now the review!

This is one of those reviews that is going to take some background. A Saving Grace by Lorna Crozier is a book of poems that goes by the conceit that they were all written by the main character of Sinclair Ross' As For Me and My House, Mrs Bentley. For those who haven't read the latter book, its conceit is that it's a journal written by Mrs Bentley, wife to the preacher Philip Bentley, and tells of their life in a small town rural prairie community some time in the early 20th century. It's a tale of crippling isolation on a number of fronts--Mrs Bentley (who never receives a first name, by the way) is desperately in love with a husband who can barely stand her, forced into a community that finds her odd, and trapped in a prairie climate that seems hellbent on removing humanity altogether.

It's not a very happy book. And it's hard to defend it against accusations of misogyny and the like. And you will, very often, find yourself wanting to shake Mrs Bentley and tell her to wise up. But what it does expertly is capture the intense isolation that rural prairie life can entail--I think that everyone who has lived it has felt that isolation at one time or another, and can relate very well to Mrs Bentley's experience.

I sat in on a grad course devoted entirely to As For Me and My House--which meant it was the only work we looked at for three straight months. You can entirely tell who has and has not read the book by this statement alone, as anyone who has read it will react with absolute horror on hearing that previous sentence. However, the main focus of the course was the secondary material on the book. The professor's "operating thesis" was that you could trace the entire body of Canadian literary criticism based on the criticism for this book, and that's largely the case--there are papers on Canadian literary canon, psychoanalysis, feminist perspectives, landscape theory, aesthetics, queer theory, realism, modernism, and even a little bit of postcolonial. Honestly, the most interesting part of the book is how important it has become in terms of prairie and national literary identity.

And that would be why Lorna Crozier chose to write a book of poems based on it. Crozier is, hands down, my favorite living poet. She's in British Columbia now, but large swathes of her poetry are based on prairie experiences, from a poem on what winter would do if it ruled the world, to a poem comparing gophers to prophets (both rely on great faith to stick their heads up!). She also heavily uses the dramatic monologue, which leans on my poetical preferences, and suits the subject matter well. I can't imagine reading this book of poems without having read As For Me and My House--there would be so much lost that I don't know if what's gained would be worth having.

But how are the poems themselves? Well, first and most importantly, Crozier nails the Mrs Bentley voice. It's a mix of bitterness and optimism, and a brittle hope. At the absolute worst, it seems to dip slightly into fan fiction (Did she and Paul...?), but even then it's witty (Paul, the philogist, was very good with his tongue.) and poignant:
I made him promise
not to say a word
And I wrote nothing down.

I wanted it to be
unreadable.

This passage taps into the key element of the original: ultimately, Mrs Bentley's journal--and by extension, Mrs Bentley herself-- is nothing but words, nothing but writing. We only see the parts of her she chooses to show, and an omission can be as significant as entry of a dozen pages.

Other highlights (for me) include "That Kind of Woman" in which one of the townsfolk is found in a well, clutching her baby after disappearing for three days, never crying out to be rescued. "The Painted Door," which gives Mrs Bentley's opinion on the other classic prairie story. "Sins of Omission," which gives a quick, pointform list of things she left out of her journal. "Mrs Bentley," in which she reflects on being the narrating character, yet still invisible and nameless. And "Judith," the poem that comes half way through the novel. I'm not going to spoil the significance of Judith if you hadn't read the original book, but suffice to say, I actually felt the pressure building up to this poem throughout the book, and at its first words, it bursts open like a floodgate:
It's taken me this long to write it.
Judith. A strong biblical name
for such a girl. I should say
woman, Miss Judith West.

And man, does it keep going from there. All in all, it's a wonderful book of poetry--horribly depressing though, much like the original. If you ever read As For Me and My House, and find the memory of it lingering, then I recommend reading this book, one poem at a time, until Mrs Bentley is finished with you.

Later Days.

A Taste of What's to Come

OMIGOD YOU GUYS KARAOKE IS SO AWESOME OMIGOD.

Later Days.

A Happy Tedium (?)

I turned in my final paper of the term, which means I am now a free agent until May, when the next term starts. This is somewhat of a daunting proposition, as I have absolutely nothing to do from now till then. Traditionally, I don't handle this lack of structure well. During the year I wrote my thesis, I had to keep myself focused with a number of little tasks: I was auditing two courses, I was TAing a first year English course, and I was marking two third year math courses. And I was still bored for long stretches.

I realize that having too little to do is not big on the list of pressing world issues, and many, if not most, people will rightfully resent me if I dwell too long on this topic. (The PoC from three weeks ago, for example, would probably cheerfully throttle me, with little to no regard for the implications of the time-space violations.) I just want to spend this time doing something productive--something I can look back on without thinking, "Man, that was a waste." I suppose now would have been the perfect time for a trip back west, but I've already booked that for the first week of June, to go to a friend's wedding. (Oh--that reminds me: Family. Guess what? I'm going to back from June 4 to June 8th! Can I bunk with you? You don't mind, right?) So we'll have to find something else--preferably something that's not "and then he played video-games for 8 straight days."
I think I'll be okay, though. As long as I don't start doing weird and abnormal things out of sheer boredom.

You know what tastes good on pizza? Banana slices.

Later Days.

What a Nice Day

It's absolutely beautiful outside right now--so much so that I am actually debating whether to play video games or go walk to the park and read under a tree. And it's been a very productive day: I was up at 6:00, went for a run (7.2 km in 39 minutes, not too shabby), then walked to the university. I talked to my prof about my one remaining essay, wrote a quarter of it (which puts me at half-done), and had lunch with a friend on a restaurant patio.

Walking in such weather is actually really nice; for once, I felt like I was privileged to do so, rather than being punished for owning the World Most Accident-Prone Bicycle.

And the essay's going great--more on that when it's finished, but I figured out what I was writing about on the walk to school, and I nearly broke out in giggles over how cool that was. You know what's fun stuff? Applying Rousseauvian educational theory to turn of the century moral novels, that's what's fun stuff.

Lunch with the friend was great too. I haven't really got a chance to talk to her in a while, so it was interesting. Both of us picked up threads from our last luncheon that the other didn't quite remember until it was mentioned. It's funny how that works. I do it all the time--although usually, the other person doesn't remember the original conversation at all. It really drives home how a conversation is really a subjective experience--if I had been asked what we talked about a week later, my answer would have been totally different from hers. And a week after that, my answer would be different from original answer. Even though the words we said are still the words we said, as the context they are recalled in and the recollector shifts, the discourse itself shifts. And the best part is that this, this constant shifting and churning of meaning, happens all the time, with every conversation we have--up to and including this post.

Okay, that's not the best part. The best part is that I get paid to think stuff like this.

Later Days.