my supervisor can beat up your supervisor

i was startlingly reminded last night that one of my co-supervisors for my dissertation has a double black belt in karate.

brings a whole new meaning to the idea of a dissertation defence, non?

*rimshot*

wishful thinking?

this past sunday:
i write in my blog, with a certain degree of whiny longing, for someone/some people to play music with.

yesterday:
i bump into heatherlovely, who will be housesitting for L&S this winter while they are in NYC. she's an accomplished pianist who wants to make good use of L's piano while she's enjoying the luxuries of the house. i've already gifted her with a pile of piano parts to some of my favourite pieces, including the bolling suite, some of my most cherished French pieces (fauré, ganne, chaminade), and ghosts of old ambition (franck and schubert). we're going to get together at least once before the holidays to play through some of it.

so i wonder ...

today:
i'm going to wish really

really

REALLY hard

and see what happens ...

"can art save us?" she asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow

yesterday afternoon, i attended a panel discussion in the english department on the efficacy of art -- can it change the world? can it change people? can it, L (who was a participant in the panel) asked wryly, stop global warming? there were no direct answers, because alas, it isn't really a yes/no question, but there was a lot of debate, and a lot of dispute over the definition of concepts like "art", "artist", "readership/audience", and perhaps the most contested term: "universals" (i'd really like to believe in the possibility of a new humanism, but i'm not 100% convinced ... but that's another post).

though the panel didn't offer me any concrete answers to the nagging questions i have about the purpose of what i do (both inside and outside of the academy), it did strike a chord that i haven't heard in awhile, somewhere deep inside my messy, churning self. L talked about the beauty (possibility? salvation? though i want to resist a xian discourse here ... ) inherent in the 'doing' of art. now, i like to think of what i do with my body in a boat as a form of artistic expression. it's not just competition to me, and it's not just about getting a lower split time, though those things, in and of themselves, are thrilling. as i argued in an essay i have coming out soon in a collection on feminism and sport, rowing is a lot like writing, races are a sort of fleeting text. yesterday afternoon, however, made me long for something else, something i haven't done in a very, very long time -- i want to experience, once more, the possibilities for expression that i used to find in music.

it has been a long time since i picked up my flute with any seriousness, and even when i was at my most serious -- orchestra seat, concert dress, paycheque and all -- i wasn't 'serious' serious; it was something to do when i needed a holiday from the world of words. both the limits of my physical body (damn RSI!) and my academic obligations will obviously keep me from locking myself away in a practice room for 4-5 hours a day, but i want to make music again. i want to play. all of a sudden, in a way i never expected to feel again, i'm hungry for time with my instrument, and practically salivating for a place in a musical community. the former, i can carve out, but the latter? i don't have a clue where to start.

below is a detail from my one-time dream instrument: a solid silver, hand-made flute (french/open-hole, offset G, .016 tube, B foot) from the wm. s haynes co. in boston.

the socks of death

my good friends k&d, ever the adventureous world travellers, recently made a trek to machu picchu and brought me back the most wonderfully warm pair of peruvian wool socks. i've taken to wearing them instead of slippers as i putter around my garret, comfy cozy in my flannel pjs, often nursing my umpteenth mug of hot chocolate. clichéd as it may be, they make me feel loved, and they keep my feet -- my notoriously giant, cold icebergs -- toasty.

the other night, i was doing my sock schtick and revelling in the warm fuzziness of it all, when the phone rang. earlier in the evening, after a brief chat with a friend, i had left the handset in my bedroom on my dresser. i was expecting an important gossip-disclosing phone call, so i jumped up from the couch, uncerimoniously dumping not only one cat, but several books of victorian literary criticism on the floor, and made a mad dash for the bedroom. i stepped on the kitchen linoleum and ... disaster. the socks have absolutely no traction. i'm still not exactly sure what happened, but i remember flying headlong into the wall, banging against the fridge (and knocking off several decorative postcards) and pulling a handful of jackets off the hooks in the hallway all while managing to get my foot mysteriously stuck in the recycling bin. i have bruises in places that one should not have bruises -- most notably in the pride-ular region. needless to say i missed the phone call. the answering machine picked up, and as i extricated myself from the recycling and took several deep breaths, my friend began reciting the lurid details i had so long been waiting to hear.

recently, i've been thinking a lot about domesticity as i beaver away on my the chapter of my dissertation that discusses the relationship between the culture of sport and the genre of the sensation novel. literary critics who focus on the genre are quick to point out how novels such as braddon's lady audley's secret and collins's the woman in white demonstrate that the seemingly safe space of home, so valued by early and mid-century victorians, is anything but. i'd like to think that mary and wilkie would in some way appreciate my own little sensational experience and the new name i've bestowed on my beloved footware: the socks of death.

end of an era

tonight, starting at 9 pm on pbs's masterpiece theatre, helen mirren will make one last appearance as that gloriously difficult and bitchy detective jane tennison in the final (final?!) installment of the prime suspect series. my detective fiction-loving heart is horribly broken. jane got me through some very dark periods in my life -- perhaps most notably the rigours and endless demands of coursework in my PhD1 year. whose will now be the picture on my bitch card? you know the card that one is allowed to play every so often when the burdens of performing perky, friendly, meg-ryanesque femininity get to be too much? i'm at a loss to think of a replacement. this description of jane found on the homepage for the series sums up why i'll miss her so much: "DCI Jane Tennison [ . . . ] is single-minded, compulsive, difficult, frustratingly arrogant, highly regarded and very, very good at her job." tune in folks. you're about to witness the end of an era.

tenacious tomato

maybe it's the never-ending rain, maybe it's the soul-sucking task of marking, maybe it's having people misunderstand the beautiful thing i found this summer ... whatever it is, it hurts. recently, i discovered this song by the band pink martini (great name, i know), and my itunes play count on it keeps rising as i spin it to soothe the ache. the lyrics help me recall the strength that i found this summer in my beautiful thing, my love for which people seem insistent on misunderstanding as some sort of failure -- of character? of ambition? i'm not sure. i want to shout back "but you don't understand! i found so much i thought i'd lost forever! now, i can go on! now, i have the strength!" it isn't the season for shouting, however (and when is it, i might ask), so this little tomato will white-knuckle it and hang on just a little tighter. i'm one stubborn piece of fruit.

Hang on Little Tomato (Pink Martini)

The sun has left and forgotten me
It’s dark, I cannot see
Why does this rain pour down
I’m gonna drown
In a sea
Of deep confusion

Somebody told me, I don’t know who
Whenever you are sad and blue
And you’re feelin’ all alone and left behind
Just take a look inside and you will find

You gotta hold on, hold on through the night
Hang on, things will be all right
Even when it’s dark
And not a bit of sparkling
Sing-song sunshine from above
Spreading rays of sunny love

Just hang on, hang on to the vine
Stay on, soon you’ll be divine
If you start to cry, look up to the sky
Something’s coming up ahead
To turn your tears to dew instead

And so I hold on to his advice
When change is hard and not so nice
You listen to your heart the whole night through
Your sunny someday will come one day soon to you

my name is shannon and i am a (former?) band geek

yes, yes. it's true. i know you find this confession hard to believe (note the irony). during my awkward teenage years, i played the piccolo and flute in my high school band. we did not march. i've never been to band camp. we were fairly technically advanced for a group of acne-prone, socially-marginalized nerds. our repertoire included the 'overture' from leonard bernstein's candide and perhaps more impressively, a selection of marches from the infamous john philip sousa. i loved playing the piccolo solo from "stars and stripes" -- during a regional band competition i remember threatening to wipe the floor with the flutist from a competing high school. she was threatened by the fact i wore earplugs when i played (to protect my hearing -- the piccolo is one loud, nasty little beast) -- those little yellow pieces of foam were indicative of my 'seriousness', much like a crash helmet at your local drag strip.

the band geek that has been dormant inside of me for longer than i'd care to admit was recently ressurrected with the discovery of the sousalarm. ask me in public and i'll pretend to be horrified by the idea -- being startled awake by the opening bars of "hail to the chief" is not something one should admit to taking pleasure in if one is to retain any shreds of a hip identity. as this is an internet confession however, i'll admit to tapping my toe along to the selection this morning, as i shook the plastic jug of orange juice in 2/2 time. once a band geek, always a band geek, i suppose. i'm considering submitting my name to the sousaphone in order to become a member in good standing of the sousalarm club.

overheard last night @ a party

naive boy: "so you're in the fourth year of the PhD program."

annoyed girl: "yeah."

naive boy: "so do you think you'll be done on time?"

silence.

annoyed girl: "i'm 28 and i weigh 148 lbs."

you heard it here first, folks ...

i am officially in love ... bike-love that is. march can't come soon enough.

if the mountain won't come to mahomet ...

there's something about travelling that gives one a new, and sometimes startling, perspective. my trip to calgary has done exactly that. in the week that i left, i was bogged down with marking, writing and worrying and all the time i was slogging through it, i kept wondering why i did so much that didn't make me happy. i was beyond glum: i was tense and grumpy. i managed to affect some quality cheerfulness when necessary and tried to aleviate my blues by spending good time with great friends. though confessing mermaid and j&j were wonderful, (and did much to soothe my weary soul and restore my faith in humanity!), when i boarded the plane for calgary, i still felt unsettled -- nay, wrestless, and not in a good way.
calgary has been the salve i needed. the conference was invigorating and through it i met wonderful friends, including the lovely meg, whose blog i've added to my list of links to the right. k&d are gracious and warm hosts and yesterday we spent the entire day scrambling around in the mountains. to a mountain neophyte like myself, every view was a quotable instance of the burke-ian sublime -- a sublime that i'd like to think shifted something inside me, closing over that gaping hole that was begging to be filled. i feel not only rejuvinated, but restored, and that process of coming back to myself that has characterized the past year and a bit is nearer to being complete. below is a picture i took yesterday while we made our way back from one of our hikes.