Sticky Moments of Translation

From Robert Douglas-Fairhurst's Victorian Afterlives: The Shaping of Influence in Nineteenth-Century Literature:

These grammatical patterns have a cognitive function, in that they shape our view of the world, as well as reflecting the shapes we retrieve from the world. Because there is no Eskimo word for "sheep", for example, Bible translators are denied "the lamb of God", and must make do with "the seal pup of God"...

Are you laughing too? Good, because I nearly fell off the sofa due to unrestrained laughter.

Procrastination

I really shouldn't be writing this entry. I should be typing my fingers off, working on class journal entries, class presentations, and book summaries. But darn it all, I just can't work up the will to do anything. After writing this, I'll probably wander into the kitchen, make myself some popcorn, and daydream about everything in the world except school. Not that I don't enjoy my classes, but I'm just so sick of thinking about them I could almost... well, I'm not sure what. You see! You see what grad school has done to me!! Not an ounce of creative thinking left in my mind; it has all been sapped in order to ensure my survival in this madcap, nonsensical world.

Now if you'll excuse me. I've got some popcorn to make, and some first-rate guilt to stew in. Dear heavens, will school ever end?!

Doubt

The life of a graduate student is one of constant doubt. Or I should say, my life is one of constant doubt. I can't really speak for the entire community of grad students out there.

There are days when I can't wait to get to work on my PhD, envisioning myself finally in a classroom, actively helping students realize their own potential within the realm of English studies. I plan syllabus after syllabus in the sunny part of my mind, wondering about different ways to present a text, what interesting points I could make, how I could make the text interweave with the thoughts of the students. I dream of teaching at a small private school, more interested in my connections with the students, faculty, and community than in prestige or publication (even though I know publication is an unavoidable part of academia). I think about being happy as a professor.

Then there are days when I wonder if I should just stop with the Master's degree and grab a job beyond the Ivory Tower. Less debt for me to pay off, immediate job experience, and best of all, no doctoral thesis to stress over for four years. No more graded homework! The thought is pure bliss! I could move to a new city, or stay here, and start living the life of a normal adult. There are lots of jobs out there that I could take on, and each in their own way would be fulfilling.

But, oh, I want to be a professor. Whenever I get discouraged with classes or schoolwork, I just think about the first few weeks of my senior year at NNU. I came in to that school year defeated by Biochemistry, feeling as though I had given up on every dream I had for my future. I had waved the white flag; my switch to English was merely a move to the second-best in life. But then, an extraordinary thing happened. The professors in the English department took me in, encouraged me, and introduced me to a world that I could both love and excel in.

I will never forget my first class with Professor Dennis. I was on edge, eager to get the syllabus down pat so I would be prepared for the semester. I remember panicking because he neglected to expand on his expectations for the final paper. After class, I rushed up to him, and nervously began to babble about how I needed to know exactly what he wanted from me, how I wanted so badly to do well, how I was scared about being in a new program, and a dozen other worries. After politely listening as long as he could, he interrupted me with a smile and said: "Don't worry about it. We'll take care of it when we need to. I'll help you with whatever problems you may have. Besides, you're going to do well here anyway, so I wouldn't get so worked up about all this." I just stared for a moment, and then started to laugh and cry at the same moment from pure delight. A teacher said he had faith in me, and that he wanted to help me. Oh, what a wonderful moment that was, when I realized that these professors cared about me as a person, and saw potential where others didn't.

(Just a note: This is in no way a negative message concerning my science professors and my experience in their department. They were encouraging, only I was too frustrated with myself. And they did express hopes that I would do well and offered help, but I was so supremely unhappy I didn't listen to them. The biology and chemistry departments at NNU are staffed with wonderful professors who care about their students. My negative experience was based solely on the fact that I had neither the aptitude nor the heart for that particular branch of academia. There, I have rendered this entry entirely inoffensive.)

I do so want to be a professor, but I worry that I am selling myself short or limiting myself by not considering other opportunities. During my science years, I was so locked into thinking that I just had to be a physician that I was blind to any other options. I don't want to go through that again. Ugh, it's so hard to be open and neutral when your future is hanging in the balance. But I will try.

Even though I really do want to be a professor.

Trivia

For all the Wicked fans out there...

I stumbled across this quote from The Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy when I was doing some reading for my Early Modern Magic class. Odd title for a class, I admit. A more accurate name would be The Occult, Witches, and Religious Beliefs of the British Renaissance. When I read this clip, I knew that I needed to post this because Marcie and Devon would get a kick out of it.

(Discussing Henricus Cornelius Agrippa's work in the occult) Some of the medieval works in which Agrippa sought his arcane wisdom had marginal, even scandalous reputations in the Renaissance. The most notorious was "the book published under the name of Picatrix", the Latin title for the Arabic grimoire only recently confirmed as a source for Marsilio Ficino's refined theorizing on magic as well as Agrippa's more sensational compendium on the occult.

Cool, huh?

Glad to Be Indoors Today

Current Temperature: -5 degrees F.

Today's High: 9 degrees F.

Today's Weather: Sunshine along with a few clouds. Very cold. Dangerous wind chills as low as -25 degrees F. Winds NW at 10 to 20 mph.

My weekend house arrest notification courtesy of The Weather Channel online.

Heavenly Visitation

My apologies to the three people who read this blog for the lack of recent postings. Yes, I feel bad about it. No, not enough to make me change my ways and start posting more frequently.

My dear friend Marcie came to Chicago last week to keep me company, see where I live, and take in the beauty of the Windy City. I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to have a friend to hang out with and talk to. It was a five-day session of complete happiness.



Perhaps the most exciting part of the trip was Wicked. Marcie snapped some pictures of the theater before the show started, and not five seconds later was verbally attacked by a member of the Usher Gestapo who swooped down out of nowhere and started screeching threats about copyright violations and prison time. Poor Marcie had to delete all of her pictures with the be-bowtied Nazi hovering nearby to ensure that not one pixel remained.

Apart from that incident, it was a magical evening. Words cannot describe how thrilling it was to see the music brought to life before my eyes. The set itself was so clever, the singing spectacular, the dialogue both hilarious and heart-wrenching, and the ending so jaw-droppingly unexpected I'm sure people would have stared at my reaction if the house lights would have been up. I would love to go on and on about how great the production was, but I know several of my friends are planning to see Wicked soon, and I don't want to give anything away. And yes, there are some things to give away; I'm not just teasing you for my own amusement.

Marcie even got a chance to see Travis and Lindsey while she was here. We all went out to a tapas restaurant on the Magnificent Mile (my second favorite epicurean experience, after sushi) and had a delicious time just hanging out and talking about how wonderful Nampa and Chicago both are.



Our other big excursion was to the Shedd Aquarium. There was a really cool shark exhibit with a simply massive tank, and a dolphin show, and a tank full of beluga whales that Marcie and I could have watched for hours. Belugas have always been a favorite with me, partially due to a childhood song I listened to over and over in the car called "Baby Beluga" (My poor parents; they must have been so sick of that song being played during every road trip and grocery run). Belugas are just so gentle and dear. It was amazing to see them swim over to their trainer and frolic and compete for kisses and rub-downs. Now you all know how to disarm me; some people swoon over puppies, some over kittens, and for me, belugas.



Marcie got to attend one of my Feminist Criticism classes, which was very cool. She got to experience what I do (whether one actually does anything in grad school is a matter of debate), and she also had the chance to meet some of the students that I have come to know over the past few months. On Marcie's last night in town, we met up with my classmate Emily and her boyfriend Matt at the Cheesecake Factory. We ate cheesecake and talked for hours, with Marcie entertaining the Detroit natives Emily and Matt with stories of hunting, hiking, and autopsies. We had so much fun.



Emily told me several days later that it was fascinating to see me "in my natural element". Thanks, Marcie, for coming and letting me find my natural element for five heavenly days. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for making those days possible.

Gourmet Experiment

Because of my penchant for 18th and 19th century British novels, I became familiar with the idea of kippers on toast for breakfast at a fairly young age. It always seemed like something very British and wonderful, probably because kippers are mentioned in several of Jane Austen's novels.

Anyway.

So, I saw some tins of kippers in the grocery store last week, and of course had to buy one so I could see if kippers on toast was all that it was cracked up to be. I was rather disappointed. Being a fish lover, I enjoyed the kippers, but it seemed like a rather bland meal overall. Of course, now that I think of it, 98% of British food is bland enough to border on unpalatable, so perhaps I was expecting too much.

The Scent of Ritual

Last Sunday, Emily invited me to attend church with her at St. James' on the Magnificent Mile. Excited at the prospect of attending church with a new friend, and eager to stare at pretty stained glass windows and gilded objects, I arrived at church a few minutes early and had to wait for Emily in the... well, I guess you would call it a vestibule. I need to shape up on my vocabulary of religious architecture.
Emily told me how whenever she invites someone to come to church with her, something strange happens, so that none of her friends get to see a normal service. This week was no exception. The bishop was there, so there was more pomp than usual in the ceremony, and he officiated over some of the service. I have never attended high church before; it was an interesting experience. The acolytes walked down the aisle with the candles and the golden Bible and the swinging censer, which smelled much more pleasant than I thought it would. I'm not usually a fan of incense, but this smelled so good! It made me immediately hungry for Persian food.
I ran into some difficulty when the chants started. Coming from a nazarene church which shies away from anything that seems remotely catholic in origin, I have had no experience with chanting. Tonal acrobatics, let me tell you. I was sure to be as quiet as possible so I wouldn't embarrass Emily in front of her fellow parishioners. My voice was all over the scale, and rarely on the right note.
I also got a big shock during communion. It was presented in the traditional style, with the community cup. I received the wafer, and took a sip from the goblet, but I forgot that alcohol is allowed in Episcopal churches. I nearly choked when I tasted the wine. Looking back, there were several things that could have happened which would have been supremely embarrassing, but fortunately nothing really happened, except for my eyes bulging out at the first taste. The priest probably thought I was having a deeply spiritual reaction. I can just imagine him thinking to himself: "Well, it looks like someone hasn't been to confession in a while. Just look at that reaction! Poor lost lamb, I'll have to corner her after the service and ask her if she needs guidance." Yup, that's probably what he was thinking.
It was a really neat experience, though. I enjoyed the rituals and miniature ceremonies throughout the service, the head priest gave a good message, and the whole church had a very welcoming air about it. And, to top it all off, my hair smelled of incense for the rest of the day.