Sunday, July 02, 2006

Reflections on gardening from a consummate black thumb

One. Real estate managed to hold my attention for one year.
Two. In that year, I have killed two batches of landscaping.
Three. I have applied for three new jobs in the last week.
Four weeks notice I gave to my current employer.
Five friends that I have lost.
Six million dollars in sales.

I think it is time to find some more fertile soil to till.

Rather prophetically, the instructor of my real estate class said. "Some will, some won't, so what? Next!"

Next!

Thursday, May 05, 2005

And sometimes it pours...

Last week, one of my very dearest friends had a massive stroke. He is young, seemingly fit, and in the process of starting a family. His illness was so sudden and so devastating, that it has left me reeling.

The good news is that his beautiful mind is fully intact and he is on his way home from the hospital and on the path to recovery.

It is stunning how much certain friends come to mean to you, and how quickly, and how magnificently fragile those relationships can be. Unlike with family, where you have expectations and privileges that allow you to intervene, assist, and love freely in times of crisis, friend relationships create a network of ambiguity where the boundaries are frustratingly unclear. Over the last week, I repeatedly found myself bumping up against a wall of questions. What can I do? What can I ask? How can I help? How can I be supportive, but unobtrusive? How can I be present but not a burden?

What can I do?

Because I cope with stress and grief by doing, helping, and fixing, when I find myself in the midst of a situation where there is nothing to do, nothing that can be done, I am lost. And for this person, this friend, who reached out to me when I was ill, notices things when no one else does, and whose friendship means more to me than I can put into words, the inability to make things right is particularly devastating.

It makes me understand why people pray.

It makes me pray.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Perhaps the worst compliment ever...

L, a good friend of mine and I were having coffee earlier today. She is a fellow writing instructor, and she shared with me what had to be the worst compliment ever.

One of her students IMed her:

"Your the best writing instructor ever!"

Indeed.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Miss Me?

I'll be back very soon I promise, but until then, here's a little snippet of my life right now.

(From my current IM conversation.)

Fem: so you turned in your paper yesterday?
Amy: yes
Amy: camber finished it for me because he is the best husband ever
Fem: cool. is it still the worst thing you ever wrote?
Amy: (he wrote the last 3 pages monday night)
Fem: that is a good husband
Amy: it's got to be the worst thing I wrote since the 4th grade.
Amy: I think I can remember a story I wrote in kindergarden where every sentence (and therefore every page) began with the word "but".
Amy: It might have been worse, but barely.

Sunday, April 10, 2005

Gardening, Amy style.

Spring is my very favorite season. I love watching the gradual process of renewal, the greening of the grass, the sprouting of the leaves, the outrageous color erupting from early blooming trees and flowers. There is something that is both hopeful and already triumphant about it all.

Spring has also burst forth in my own life. This month marks my transition from the hallowed, quiet, stately halls of the academic world to the wonderfully chaotic, vaguely predatory, and frenetic world of real estate.

That means this month I have two professional roles. On the note of out with the old-- I am still teaching my freshman composition class, with many students who I have been working with for an entire year, who I first met as fresh-faced freshman on their first day of classes. They are now on the verge of successfully completing their first year of college. I will miss them. I also have a twenty-five page paper to write in the next two weeks for my 18th C. moral and economic thought class. This role of academic student/teacher is harder and harder to slip into with each passing day. Like an ill-fitting suit, it seems to bag at the knees and scratch around the neck.

And, in with the new-- I am taking an accelerated class that will allow me to secure my real estate sales license at the end of April. This adds 24 hours of class time to my schedule every week and at least another ten hours of homework. For the last two weeks I have been interviewing for and interviewing potential employers for my job. Since hiring practices in real estate are vaguely predatory, this has been a mental-energy intensive project.

In the midst of all of this, I have re-landscaped the front of my house. I told my ex- boyfriend/best friend from high school about this plan over IM, and he laughed, and called it, “Gardening, Amy style.” Naturally, the thing to do when you already have two full-time jobs is to put 40+ hours into an entirely unnecessary project. So, my style, as can be derived from this project is either: a) totally insane, b) overly ambitious with a healthy disregard for sleep OR c)just my style.

I think it’s d) all of the above.

I promise to return to blogging the many entertaining and hilarious stories of my life as soon as I get two or more consecutive nights of adequate sleep. (That should be sometime in June for those of you who keeping track.)

Friday, April 01, 2005

Adult Life.

I wanted to write something silly and flippant this morning, but I find that I just don't have it in me. Three of my close friends and family members are dealing with really horrible situations right now, and I am not able to do anything to make any of their problems any better. It's funny that I welcome adversity in my own life, but when troubled times come for someone I care about, I just want to be able to make it go away. And, I can't.

Ever since I was a little girl I have had this rule of three. One major setback, no problem. Two major setbacks, bring it on. The third problem, I fall apart. This third thing could be as simple as stubbing my toe, but it would make me fall apart.

Two days ago, I was driving home from school when I called a friend and was told some really bad news, and I cried.

Then, I prayed.

Then I felt silly, unsure whether I believed in the prayers or not.

But it was the only thing I could do to help.

Thursday, March 31, 2005

My Hobby Horse.

So, I just finished all of the revisions on my M.A. thesis, and it's begining to appear that this chapter of my life will conclude with a degree. I had to laugh however, when I reached the conclusion of my paper and, there it was, the same old obsession trotted out again. It seems, that I really only ever make one argument, and my thesis is no exception. Here's the conclusion:

In a political world where women possess only very limited means of representation, the question of who is entitled to construct narratives becomes crucial. Earla Wilputte writes: "For Haywood, “to control modes of narration…is to control the world” (Doody xxvvii), and women, readers, and citizens must carefully and responsibly interpret the representations offered by men, authors, and politicians. Neither a woman’s nor a nation’s history can be neatly allegorized, romanticized, or narrated without bearing the impression of its storyteller. Haywood’s hybrid novel suggests that one closely examine the politics of representation and decipher the voices and the meanings behind artistically constructed texts"(Wilputte, Textual 42).
Narrative constructions are implicated by power differentials, as are politics. To gain understanding, the individual, in life and in reading a text, must assess sometimes contradictory and always biased pieces of information in order to form his or her own understandings about events and ideologies.

Viewed through this lens, The Adventures of Eovaai is not about the advancement of a specific political system as much as it is about becoming a critical political subject. In order for women to gain any access to political agency, they must, like Eovaai, come to interpret society for themselves and make their own decisions about politics. Rather than acting as receptacles of received knowledge, which set women up to be the manipulated pawns of “great” men, they must begin to make their own evaluations of the information that they receive. This prevents women from becoming, like Atamadoul, the amorous political subject who remains faithful in the face of gross mistreatment.

The process of reading that Eliza Haywood engenders in the The Adventures of Eovaai is one of attunement. This attunement is forced upon the reader through the sheer complexity of the text. By defying the reader the possibility of a singular, unified reading, the text demands the creation of multiple contingent readings. In that way, Haywood’s mélange is a reveling in partiality, a refusal of completeness, of completion. Instead, the text produces a new vision of political subjectivity for all readers; a vision that urges the reader to become her own arbiter of meaning rather accepting the interpretations created by others. This vision advances the radical notion that the act of constructing a reading functions fundamentally as a mode of empowerment. It thus implies that by becoming an independent reader that is attuned to the modalities of interest within received information, a person can create her own space of understanding. It is within this space that independent political subjectivity begins.