Alfina the Vague: shamelessly overusing commas since 2004.
Absent-mindedly scratching the inside of one’s ear only to notice later a thin film of ear wax on one’s fingertip.
Touching sticky food or newsprint.
Noticing the aroma a cat leaves behind in the litter box.
The sweat of yesterday’s whiskey or garlic.
The wet feeling of trouser cuffs that have been dampened by a stagnant puddle on the sidewalk.
Accepting praise one feels is undeserved.
The smell of a zoo.
(see: The Pillow Book)
We are reading The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon this week, which is one of my all-time favorite works. It’s a collection of lists and observations written by a court lady in 11th Century Japan, and it is awesome. The lists of things are brilliant. Her list of “Elegant Things,” for example, includes:
A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat.
Duck Eggs.
Shaved Ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl.
A rosary of rock crystal.
Snow on wistaria or plum blossoms.
A pretty child eating strawberries.
I am going to do a series of Pillow-Book-inspired lists over the next little while, which should be ever so much fun. Feel free to add your own items!
Today is this day. It is Tuesday. Today is the day on which, during the hours between twelve and four, you charming little whippersnappers can drop by my office to discuss revising your essays. During this discussion I will give you more brilliant ideas and suggestions than you are worth, wasting my finite brain power on your insignificant needs, wasting it on advice you will not heed, instead of using it for things that are relevant to my own life, such as thinking about David Boreanaz and deciding what kind of whiskey I am going to be drinking this evening.
Tomorrow is not today; it is different. Tomorrow is the day after today. Tomorrow is Wednesday. Tomorrow is not a day on which you can drop by my office, because I will not be here. Rather I will be using my finite brain power on things that are relevant to my own life, such as thinking about David Boreanaz and wondering why I drank so much whiskey the night before.
Do not ask me when my office hours are tomorrow. This is a question that is impossible for me to answer. “When are your office hours tomorrow,” asks the wind silently. “When are your office hours tomorrow,” says the sound of one hand clapping. “When are your office hours tomorrow?” The question is like a Zen koan posed by the Buddha in a forest when no one was there to hear it.
We at the Desk of What the Difference is between Today and Tomorrow appreciate your careful attention to this matter.
My dissertation defense date is almost official: I am just waiting for two more professors from my committee to log into the website and confirm they will attend. I swear to dog, dealing with my committee is the most ridiculously annoying thing about the whole effing project.
I have an “outside member” (dirty!) whose job is mainly to make sure the school isn’t handing out doctorates willy-nilly, and who sits on the committee but doesn’t work very closely with me throughout. Although he requested not to see the dissertation until it’s complete, I did make sure to copy him on all of the planning, scheduling, and logistics emails as it is absolutely necessary that he attend the actual defense. We have had one date and one date only in mind throughout the whole thing, and just as I sent out the email stating that I was entering the scheduling module online, he finally piped up to complain that the chosen day was his busiest of the week and sweet sassy molassy but he didn’t have a spare minute between eight and five, the pobrecito. Well, too bad, sucka, I guess we will just do it at five then.
On the plus side, this should ensure that everyone will be tired as it will be the end of the day, and thus they will hopefully not feel like sticking around after my talk to pepper me with difficult questions, like did I actually do any research or why I think anyone in the known universe would be likely to care about my little project or who the hell do I think I am. That kind of thing. Hopefully, it’ll be a quick talk, some quick questions, get in, get out, get a round of shots.
In other committee-related crap, I had also picked out a draft deadline before leaving Zembla — a date by which I would have a complete manuscript in the hands of each committee member for their perusal. Although the grad school suggests this be done three weeks before the defense, we had decided on doing it six weeks before the (then still hypothetical) defense date, just to make sure everyone had adequate time to read through and give me the go-ahead on setting the defense date officially. After all, no one wants to walk into that room to face a committee that has decided, upon reading the manuscript, that it is just not done yet. Surprise, you don’t graduate! Oh, oh no. Shudder.
So the six-weeks-ahead draft deadline was supposed to eliminate any problems, but when it came time to set the date officially, had any of those people read the thing yet? No. And of course this is my fault, not theirs, as I surmised from certain emails that were sent to me using words like “frankly.” Do not “frankly” me, people, oh no. DO NOT “frankly” me, because frankly I think I have given you more than adequate time to read the manuscript and frankly it is not my fault that you put it off until the last minute. Frankly.
Whew, I feel better now.
Anyway, I can finally start looking for a plane ticket back to Zembla for the defense. That should be fun — I get to see my Zemblan people again and wear a coat again and get a blessed break from the sight of khaki and Polo shirts and Topsiders and protestants.
Tomorrow is another day of teaching: it’s Chaucer these days. I must strive to be more like the pilgrim who gladly wolde learn and gladly teche, even though of late I am more inclined to model myself on the guy who went around with his iren hoot, other people in the ers for to smoot.
I am still waiting to hear back from my committee members as to whether we can schedule my stupid dissertation defense, and they are cutting it pretty close to the deadline for this term. Time for a friendly reminder email from me.
In the meanwhile, I have been having anxiety dreams about the whole affair, including one where I was asked at the defense Q&A to read a poem I had written freshman year in college, apparently because I had made reference to it in one of the chapters and had forgotten doing so. Nothing worse than the idea of reading your college poetry (inevitably about a boy and/or kissing) in front of your academic colleagues.
I also had a blog-related dream, and you were in it. Yes, you there, at the computer. You! You were wearing a speedo, a blue one, and I couldn’t quite see your face (a two-toed sloth was chasing you through the swimming pool and kept blocking my view) but I say with certainty that you had a very cute butt indeed.
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