This is the year I declare myself a mostly-Jonson, generally-non-Shakespearean, sort of-psychoanalytic/feminist scholar…

you know, in an official, academic-y sort of way.  I’m officially at two conferences this year: NeMLA and ACCUTE (both in Montreal this spring), unofficially at another (my supervisor’s panel at PNRS in Victoria this fall), and awaiting reply from a fourth (CSRS, also in Montreal this spring). The NeMLA paper is on female bodies and voices in Middleton’s The Maiden’s Tragedy (I’m reading through Butler’s “Antigone’s Claim”), the ACCUTE paper on the fragmented selves in Jonson’s The Alchemist (reading through Lacan’s “Mirror Stage,” and a reworking of my psychoanalysis paper from last year), and the PNRS on cuckoldry and knowledge in The New Inn (a reworking of one of my thesis chapters). The CSRS is on sadistic visions in Beaumont’s Knight of the Burning Pestle (which I’m writing on in my MA thesis).

Alright, the audiences will be small, but still, when word gets around, and people start to say, “hey, that’s that mostly-Jonson, generally-non-Shakespearean, sort of-psychoanalytic/feminist scholar!” you can nod your head knowingly.

Remember, you read it here first.

2 February 2010 ~ Hamilton

At Starbucks last night…

the barista asked “so how’s the thesis going?”

“It’s 10.30 and I’m ordering coffee.”

And that’s how it’s going, friends. That’s how it’s going.

[Thank you, Starbucks baristas, for your provisions of coffee and humour.]

26 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

My day at Robarts: a report.

10.30. Arrive at foyer of Mills library in a fluster. A. is already waiting, looking more composed than I, with my stack of reference letters, transcripts, and writing samples. I put in my request to delay our library adventure long enough to mail out Ph.D. applications. Mailing proves impossible when we discover McMaster’s post office is out of pre-paid envelopes. How are they ever going to make it through the week?

10.38[ish]. Deciding to mail applications from Toronto, we leave the book store post office and set out for the parking lot. It’s rainy.

11.30[ish]. In Toronto. We park along the side of the road, and wend our way on foot to the main entrance (we think) to the library. A. and I discuss the building’s famous [?] peacock-formation. Deciding “peacock” doesn’t quite do the building justice, we discuss possible alternative descriptors. Decide upon “sphinx-like lego peacock from the future.” Muse further on why the books are housed in the peacock’s rear. Further musings on worse possibilities for animal muses in architecture: the turkey; what would be stored in the wattle of that building?

Nigh noonish. Confusion over where to obtain borrower status. Having visited three librarians already, and obtained temporary day pass, we finally locate the much-sought Librarian Who Can Bestow Permanent Borrower Status. We give the secret pass codes (mostly our names and student cards), confront the one-eyed stealer of faces (the camera), sign a blood pact, and, after five minutes’ nervous waiting, obtain the Key to the Book Vault (as well as temporary catalogue access).

Post noonish. We set out on our quest for a computer terminal marked “LIRA”. Realise we set about the task rashly, and have failed to obtain the knowledge of where to begin searching. In desperation, we search the fifth floor, but the local inhabitants can give us no further information. Dismayed, we abandon our quest for the simpler task of finding the books of “PR.” The thirteenth floor proves lucky, as we locate both the books and LIRA. Our good cheer returns.

Somewhat later. We begin our separate searches: A. to microfilm, S. to the stacks, while I remain with LIRA and search for the locations of the exciting and important accounts of the Stationers Company Registers. Our searches are fruitful, and S. and I reconvene to prepare for our search for the books of “Z”.

12.30[possibly]. On the lift. We select the thirteenth floor. The lift stalls. At this point, we realise we are, indeed, already on the thirteenth floor (see above).

By 1.00. We have located all of the books we are likely to find. Some are misshelved. Some missing entirely, and replaced, curiously, by wooden slabs that only look like the books we want (title and all!). Closer inspection reveals wooden slabs do not have pages. Or real covers. In fact, do not open at all and are, for the most part, entirely unhelpful for the purposes of Serious Research. Tired from carrying books, we return to the first floor.

Time indeterminate. On the first floor, we inquire about the location of the item mysteriously marked “pamph. econ. R.” Distracted & Not-At-All-Nice Librarian tells us the item is in storage. I put on my decidedly unheroic “I didn’t want that book anyways” tone, and we decide to find A. on the third floor (still in microfilm). D&NAANL asks us for our Keys to the Book Vault even though we clearly have books in our hands that we could only have gotten from the stacks, from which we minutes ago exited, and have not left her sight the entire time since then. We fumble for our ID cards, and regain approval and entry.

Still indeterminate. Enter lift. Select “3″. Lift ignores our selection. Up to 15. Determinedly select “3″ again. Lift goes to “1.” Now note label that lift does not, in fact, stop on third floor. Wonder why this note is posted on the inside of the lift. Wearily give up on wonderings and exit lift. Enter lift that arrives only at floors one through five. Select “3.” Lift stops at third floor. Relieved, we exit and find A.

1.30. Waiting. Checking out. Attempted photocopying. Wrong book. Re-searching. Successful photocopying.

By 2.00. Faint from our errant librarying, we exit in search of late luncheon. First we locate the post office, where I finally succeed in sending out the mail from this morning. After a two-hour lunch (which includes drinks in the excuse of Robbie Burns day), we exit.

4.00[or so]. Despite S’s departure, A and I walk back to the car feeling cheerful and festive, a feeling heightened by the piper outside who, in the cold and rain, plays for Robbie. A and I aren’t much fussed with Robbie, but appreciate that he provides the excuse for the luncheon drinks (above). We thus muse good-naturedly on how the selection process might go for determining who gets to stand in the rain and play for Robbie (we suppose it’s whomever has bagpipes available). We collectively scramble for change for our parking. Having inserted 12.40, we realise we are .10 short. Crisis averted by A’s discovery of a ten-cent piece. We decide we aren’t quite ready to leave Toronto yet, and so, pretending to search for our car, we stop for a last coffee.

4.30. Find car. Leave Toronto. We will “leave Toronto” for the next 1.5 hours.

After 6.00. Returning home, we quietly slip back into the regular work habits of productive grad students. Our borrowed books and library cards, however, remain constant memories of the day’s remarkable adventures.

25 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

Monday 25 January.

“Sitting at tea, we decided three things: in the first place to take Hogarth, if we can get it; in the second, to buy a Printing press; in the third to buy a Bull dog, probably called John. I am very much excited at the idea of all three — particularly the press.”

Thank you, Virginia.

25 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

Non-Accredited Book Reviews: Mick Jackson and Malinda Lo.

These be briefer than usual. With none of the usual excerpts.

I started Jackson’s The Underground Man a few weeks ago, and the combination of descriptive prose not immediately tied to an obvious “problem-resolution” plot structure, and an exhaustively busy schedule made for reading delays. Oh, how I loved the book though. I read Jackson’s short story collection, Ten Sorry Tales, two years ago, and admired the way he matches an understated narrative tone to events that are sorrowful and horrifying. The mixture of sorrow and horror also shows up in Jackson’s novel, though he replaces the detached omniscient narrator of his short stories with the first-person narrative (in the form of journal entries) of the “underground man”: his Grace, the duke, who is charming in his humour and eccentricities, and fascinating in his thought processes. (He’s fascinating enough that I barely acknowledged that most of the book is about a man walking in, about, and around his estate, not doing much of anything, and charming enough that the horror of one of the book’s penultimate scenes was already well in progress by the time I realised what was happening, so simply and good-humouredly as he describes it.) The book is generally concerned with aging, madness, disease, and death, and Jackson writes these things in such a way that it’s difficult to dismiss them as trivial or unfortunate experiences happening to “other” people.

Malinda Lo’s Ash is a retelling of the Cinderella story. I was a bit underwhelmed, at the outset: it’s a well-written story, for a young adult audience. I think the fact that the book doesn’t try to flag itself as a queer rewriting/defense, however, is what makes it so extraordinary. Certainly, coming from a feminist/queer theory background, the story’s inclusion of lesbian/bi-sexual relationships seemed utterly normal; and indeed, this is how the book portrays Ash’s queer sexuality — as something the other characters take as given — something which barely needs commenting upon (and certainly no justification). More at issue, for Ash and the other characters in the book, are the problems of cross-class, and mixed “racial” (one of her lovers is a fairy) relationships, as well as the problems of making sense of religion/superstition, of working through grief and mourning, and the confusion of loving two individuals at once. I wish I had been read this sort of fairy tale when I was younger.

24 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

Irrational, understandable.

Writer Neil Gaiman has been sleeping in his attic the past two nights with his dying cat Zoe. He’s also driving through a snow storm to pick up Zoe’s other parent for a final visit.  Writing about the experience, he wonders “what it is about this small blind cat that inspires such behaviour.” A question I expect many people sharing living space with an animal might have asked themselves late at night.

I can recall three periods of my life when I haven’t lived with a dog (including now); each such period is characterised by a feeling of longing, that admittedly makes little sense when read objectively. Dogs are a lot of work. They interrupt one’s own work with their incessant need to go “out” at regular intervals. If not taken out, they make a mess of things inside — either chewing one’s favourite books, computer, clothing, [insert treasured object of choice] — or leaving the more obvious sorts of messes. When taken outside, they tend to get into a mess anyways, rolling in substances you’d rather not think of, and galloping through any water they can sniff out. Dogs often smell bad. They typically harbour embarrassing obsessions with food. It’s not rational to miss living with dogs, is it? But I do.

Further irrationalities: in the summer, my father, an inveterate disliker-of-cats, brought home an older kitten that had been hanging about his office. The animal, whom I nominated “Infiltrator Kitten”,  was obviously malnourished, but otherwise bore none of the marks of a feral cat (she was affectionate, already litter trained, and had a taste for potato chips).  Her ravenous appetite soon showed itself to be the effect not only of starvation, but also of the collective appetites of several cats-to-be in her insides.  It was the less epic version of the invasion of Troy, really. From mid-August to late October my dog-loving parents and their cat-loathing golden retriever were the guardians of an army of eight cats, all of which they placed in homes.

Celia, one of Infiltrator Kitten’s offspring, has been living with me for four months now. A fact which means she’s lived with me for all but one month of her life. I was around the day she was born; I returned her to her mother when she found herself having crawled blindly too far away; I sat very still on the floor as she tried to learn how to walk (using my jacket and jeans as practice ground instead of the slippery hardwood floor). Now she keeps me company in the many many hours I spend on my own, reading, writing papers (time which far outweighs the time I spend actually out with people, in class). Sometimes she sits on my knee, or beside the computer keyboard — occasionally pawing the pages as I turn them, or pressing keys (she loves F1), goading me into play. If I’m very busy, she curls up beside me, or, more frequently, across my neck, and sleeps until I take a break. If I shut off my alarm in the morning in an attempt to sleep in, she pounces on me, or licks my nose, until I wake up properly.

Jesse (who also adopted one of the kittens) and I occasionally talk about animal love.  Animal love is undoubtedly different from people love. (It has to be, doesn’t it, given the power relationships at work in domestication?) Like people love, however, animal love involves the act of opening one’s everyday life to (an)other. A close, nuanced, and powerful relationship can result. And sometimes it takes the form of “irrational” responses that, nonetheless, make sense to the people who live with these animals.

All of which is a complicated way of saying I’m sorry to read about Gaiman’s cat.

23 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

Returning to the place of one’s birth…

is an interesting experience. I keep expecting to be surprised at the changes to the place (yes, cities do tend to change, even in four months), and I do sort register thoughts like “oh, that wasn’t there before,” but mostly everything is familiar. I find myself falling into the same sorts of rhythms of moving about the city. After 24 years, I can do it with my eyes closed (handy if one has been somewhat sleep deprived over the last two weeks), or preoccupied by a book (a remarkable skill, reading whilst walking: it’s the only sport at which I’ll ever be any good).

Even if I’m away from the place for a decade, and most of the buildings change, and all the streets remarkably become two-way, I think I’ll still know my way around. Unless the “grid” of the city changes in a big way, the memory of the last 24 years is going to assert itself. Then I’ll be able to tell meandering stories of how everything looked in “my day.”

17 January 2010 ~ St. Catharines

(I put “grid” in quotation marks because, while it has a grid, it’s bizarrely diagonal. Because they built the city according to the water moves in the several canals, to and from the Great Lakes. Also, they built suburbs based on shanty towns the canal workers planted as they went along. It’s a strange layout.)

I just completed…

the first of five online Ph.D. applications. Now I just need to collect my last letter of reference, pick up my transcripts, pick out a writing sample, and complete the whole package. And I’m a whole day ahead of schedule.

14 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

Free time?

I submitted two pieces of work today: my revised MA proposal, and my CSRS proposal (on patriarchal delusions in Knight of the Burning Pestle).  I’m now left with this quite strange feeling of feeling rather in control of my work. My Ph.D. application for Mac is nearly complete (and not due until Friday), as are the rest of my Ph.D. apps. I’m caught up on grading, have completed my TA reading for the week, have my long chapter outline well in progress, and have completed my first readings for my new classes this term. And I have a reading schedule outlined.

Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll return to a state of panic soon. In the mean, I’m reading some non-required work. Maybe Anna K.

11 January 2009 ~ Hamilton

Dear Grad Studies Committee,

My thesis supervisor says my proposal revisions look great. Please please do agree with her.

Also, I know the font and margins look wrong. My copy of Word says they’re 12-point, 1 inch. Please overlook this error.

Sincerely,

Tired grad student.

11 January 2010 ~ Hamilton

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