Returns, Some Triumphant, Others Incurring a Fine

It is winter here in Cambridge. The statement is false, but serves to better illustrate the blogger's state of mind. We are experiencing a frigid mid-October, and it is difficult to reconcile myself with this. I did not fully notice when it was summer; perhaps this explains the shock and resistance to a rather expected and incremental change.

I went for a walk to return a library book (overdue -- evidently one does not grow up, one only grows taller), and remembered that Harvard Yard in autumn is nice. How sad, that I had not crossed the Yard since the late summer: crisp air, red leaves, the notebooks tucked away under elbows, all came as a surprise. I struck an irregular (but deliberate) path across it, pausing briefly at the old stops, examining the old rocks. We are grading our students on rock identifications around University Hall, you see. A responsible TF would refresh her memory, you see; I had a reason to be there. Mostly I just wanted to see them again.

*     *     *

On that topic, teaching is a blast, teaching is a treasure. Teaching is the highlight of my week. Once a week, for three hours, I win. It is a brilliant feeling to TF the same first introductory course that you took in your future field. That said, it will not do to have the sleep-deprived leading the sleep-deprived. This seems to me a disastrous concoction.

Hope all is well,

R

*There are many facets to returning to one's alma mater for graduate school: academic, emotional, geographical. The Yard has taken on the quality I associate with hometowns: a place well-loved; left; regained. But I'll switch focus to the academic-emotional, rather than the geographical-emotional.

Better Than a Candy Heart, but Not as Good as a Necco Wafer

The 2nd floor geochemistry message board is currently playing host to an anonymous, rapidly updated dialogue-by-means-of-pushpin. The exchange has lasted some three weeks. It began, or at least I noticed it, when a smiley face morphed into "Hi!," which was shuffled to a "Hey" overnight. I have the identity of one participant (a labmate); the other is a mystery person in the halls of Hoffman. Having established that I was not involved, the labmate and I recently gathered enough pins to eke out "Who?" on the board. This was replaced, overnight, with a somewhat disappointing "Me." So much for the direct approach.

* * *

My labmate has left for the rest of summer, and the pins have mirrored a slide from assurance to confusion: a smiley face dropped to "?!" Today's reaction to the prolonged radio silence: a heart with an arrow through it. For one thing, that took a lot of pins. I scanned the hallway for pin-poor posters hanging off the wall. Logistics aside, hmm. I wonder who in Hoffman is heartbroken.

Scars: Relating to Sharp Surfaces, or Otherwise

I've developed a nifty double-struck scar across the knuckles of my left hand. Back alley, fist fight vs. Shadow ninjas. One fist. Left.

Actually, I slammed the back of my hand against sheet metal and got sliced twice, by both the upper and lower edges (think: top face meets side; bottom face meets side. Both edges are sharp). It seems I walk with ~10% precision, and this has its consequences. I don't much like getting scars on my hands. Yet, much of my work is manual, and I seem to be collecting them. This parallel pair of shiny fine lines is particularly conspicuous. I suppose that's fitting; subtlety (physical, verbal, emotional; grammatical?) seems beyond my reach.

Thing I like: ambiguous syntax. It's infuriating in the context of academic writing, but delightful when it rears its head in more frivolous settings. (Note to self: the adj form of "levity" is not levitical*. "Lighter" would have sufficed, but "frivolous" is less ... ambiguous.)

Consider this example for the night: top 40 pop song by Sean Kingston titled "Fire Burnin'." Lyrical snippet, sans punctuation:

Somebody call 911 shorty fire burning on the dance floor

Is that: call 911, shorty -- there's a fire burning on the dance floor? Or, call 911 -- there's a shorty-fire burning on the dance floor? I prefer the latter, for the sake of imagery. Ah, but it appears neither is correct:

She's fire burning fire burning on the dance floor
That little shorty's fire burning on the dance floor

It appears that "fire burning" functions as an augmented gerund: fire, as an entity, packaged in, enveloped. It is oddly more illustrative than just plain "burning." One could burn with fever, lust, jealousy; smolder with rage, all without actual flames. If one is fire burning, there can be little doubt. Still I prefer the shorty-fire.


*For some practical advice, and what is arguably one of my favorite parts of the Old Testament, see Leviticus 13 (on leprosy).

Say It All

The wookies' farewell to Yoda. D is moving out tonight, and this was on TV; I looked at K and said, "That's us." It was true.

Everything Old is New Again

My thoughts have recently spun around the theme: returning, and the associated task of perceiving old things anew. Two things came to mind.

(1) Re-reading books. I've found that my perception of a novel changes -- a shift in focus, a shift in meaning, new weight-- as I get older and read it again. I first read To Kill a Mockingbird with a 13 year old's eyes. Accordingly, I think I paid the most attention to the motives and actions of Scout and Jem -- these were spelled out most clearly, and at that age they seemed like the obvious bits with which to concern myself. I read the book again recently. Suddenly rich narrative fabrics were apparent; new threads emerged soaked with new empathy, new understanding. I was shocked at the narrowness of my prior reading; shocked, but then reassured. I had grown since then. One ought to grow, to see things with new eyes. I mistrust the eighth grader who slides straight to Understanding, without trudging through Experience first.

This reminded me of returning to classics, of looking for new wisdom in old places.

(2) The second return is physically manifest: I am living in Cambridge, again. The first time was different. It occurred to me that as an undergraduate, I did not do terribly well with the college campus metaphysical mindset, this strange awareness of being not-at-home. However, I did not understand this at the time -- it was only this evening, as I waited for sushi at the Porter Exchange, that I put my finger on what bothered me. Campus life is partially institutionalized homesickness: we form South Asian associations, world music groups; we inform and enrich one another but do so largely to surround ourselves with comfort, for we are far from home. This vague persistent undercurrent of out-of-placeness confused me, frankly. I did not dare call Cambridge home; that would be treason to my hometown of Buffalo. Campus housing was clearly temporary: we were transient kings of milk crate-castles. Every year we sacked the fortress and cleared the venerable halls for summer. This was hardly motivation to call a place home. I was deeply unsettled with being...unsettled. I felt placeless.

The intervening year in Chicago was an opportunity to see what things could be like. I chose to live there, I was part of the workforce, I commuted daily. When there was traffic in downtown, I knew about it. I returned to Cambridge with hope.

And it's different this time. I have to remind myself to look at familiar places -- Cambridge Common, Harvard Square proper -- with new eyes, but much of the rest is coming naturally. I know the neighborhoods, I ride my bike, I go to the yard sales, I yell at the kids. It is distinct from returning home, but I have returned, and this is home. Good.

Hope things are well,
R.

Update: Jellybean Menace, Really Big Antlers

K reported a second linear candy trail sighting, also on Garden Street: skittles this time.

I was away in Houston for LPSC, and it seems to have rained the whole week in Boston. I returned last night. This afternoon on the walk home, I saw the now-familiar jellybeans still on the sidewalk, swept to the side and bleached white by rain, like ET. Little ET jellybeans. I wondered if they were still delicious.

Also, Tycho Brahe lost part of his nose in a duel. He lived the rest of his life with a prosthetic nose made of precious metals. He also had a dwarf and a domesticated elk in his court, but the elk drank too much beer one day, fell down some stairs and died. It is sad, but this is what makes the history of science worth reading about.

The moral of the story is, keep your domesticated elk out of the cask ale.

This image is on my blog...

...for March Madness bracket purposes. They needed an active link.