When Practicality Becomes Hobby

This year I appear to have taken up canning. I tried this two years ago, and managed to make a perfectly passable blueberry jam. It was easy enough, and the supplies were accessible. I mean, how else do you use up 10 pounds of blueberries?

But this year I’ve gotten adventurous. So far I’ve made strawberry jam, set up the first batch of pickles (with a second batch schedule for this week) and peach chutney is virtually guaranteed, once I acquire some half-pint jars. Who knew half-pint jars would be sold out? Who cans anymore?

I have to admit, it’s a relatively easy process to make and can jams and jellies. An afternoon of work provides me with all the jam I could possibly eat (given that I don’t partake often), and enough to give away to friends. My plans for apple butter and chutney fall into the same category. Well, maybe not the chutney. I suppose the chutney falls into the same category of use as the charming knitting patterns I’ve been looking at lately. Dwarf helmets, octopi, overly elaborate wrist warmers, all of these patterns appeal to me, but not for the same reasons that inevitably drove my ancestors to knit or can. My great-grandmother canned because that’s how you ate. You grew the crop, harvested, and preserved it. You knit sweaters and hats because it was cold, not because you bought entirely too much yarn in Ireland and need to use it wisely.  No, I’m returning to my crafting roots with a healthy dose of Gen-Y bourgeois attitudes. I make mango-peach chutney because mangoes are readily available, and I like chutney. It adds something special to my grilled goats cheese sandwich. Or is a ready side when I feel like whipping up an Indian-inspired meal to go with my need to start using all those tandoori spice mixes I picked up at the specialty spice outlet. I will knit wrist-warmers because I don’t do enough outdoor winter work to need my fingers preserved, and the design may be inspired by “Dr. Horrible’s Sing A Long Blog”. Because nothing says “I’ve picked up an artistic skill” quite like emulating fictional characters.

So this is August, and I am canning. I’m scouring farmer’s markets for the best quality, and often the only quality ingredients. I search the internet and yellowed, hand-written notes by long passed relations for hints and techniques, and I think I burned my fingers on the glass jars. Later I chance tendonitis for a few more inches on a knit wrap. I do it, not because I need to, but for the love of the craft. And because I’m unemployed and avoiding boredom.

Poetry Arc

I don’t get poetry. I really, truly do not get poetry. Even at my most awkward faux-angst ridden teenage phases I never entertained the notion of venting my frustrations in furious sessions of bad poetry writing. I had an online journal. I attempted to learn the invented languages of Tolkien. I generally was normal, but I never touched poetry. I ignored poetry almost totally, until Mr. Schulze had a lesson on Eliot’s “Love Song for J. Alfred Prufrock”. And that’s when I learned that Eliot wrote on non-cat subjects. My world view, it shattered.

The next year McCabe began nearly every class with a poem; and I learned to take joy in the sounds of poetry. I didn’t need meaning, and he rarely asked for analysis, for which I am eternally grateful. Every few months when I go through my growing collection of papers, and toss out another ream of scribbles and syllabi, I always come across one of the poems McCabe passed out. And I pause for a moment, glance over the words, and promptly return it to a place of privilege somewhere in my file boxes. As I force my way through extra files and papers from my first semester of grad school and prepare for my second, I’m discovering a small collection of poems. I’m not as attached to these pages as examples of fairy tales’ enduring popularity and transfer to poetic format, as much as I simply like these poems. If this continues I will need to start a binder to hold these poems that have somehow come to mean something to me.

I sometimes pick up my copy of Fry’s Ode Less Traveled and think, ah yes, today is the day I try to write poetry. And inevitably I think of how much I’d like to go read some of the examples and the book is down and I am scanning my library. Today I considered a jaunt to the library for translations of Catullus because I saw his name somewhere. I don’t care for discussions of scansion, or rhythm and meter. My understanding of all of this begins and ends with applications to performing Shakespeare. I intend to keep it that way, as I browse a bookshop for Lorca in the original Spanish, because I rather like the one about waltzes.

I don’t get poetry. I don’t really want to. I’ve learned by now, and wish I had learned sooner, that I should never study anything I really love. Reducing a passion to analysis mars the beauty of a thing. And that one poem McCabe handed out on the first day of my senior year of high school remains beautiful.

Academic terror

I haven’t actually been academically challenged to any true degree until this year. Beloved former roommates can tell tales of nights when I would open a book at 10 pm, flip through the pages until 11 when Daily Show came on, and around midnight would actually start writing an 8-10 page paper due at 2:30pm the next day. I would usually go to sleep around 2 am, only to get up and finish it with moments to spare. Not to brag, but I graduated magna cum laude with these habits.

Now, I have a part/full-time job, and a full course load. In theory, I can handle this lifestyle. Work replaces the time I spent wandering the internet for mindless entertainment, fraternity commitments, occasional theatre events, and other “distractions”. I had not reckoned on professors who expect great things, and have a 0% margin of error, and heavy reading schedules. I also had not realized that my lifetime of unfounded fear of reading comments from professors on drafts and papers would suddenly manifest itself as a mighty internal battle every week. I have a two rather large papers due in early December, and some several projects before then.

All of this has led up to bi-weekly moments of terror shortly before I fall asleep for the night when I realize just how much is due, and how little time I truly have to finish everything. Which leaves me here, two hours before I leave for class, half-finished reading a book with a reading paper still to write, and several other pages of reading waiting my attention. And then there’s the project due next week, the short paper mere days after that, and the other books on the list. And not even the luxury of the full week of Thanksgiving I had in undergrad to allow me time to catch up.

So off I go to read again. If I can get through another 135 pages before class, then finish after class, I can do more reading, or write the paper tomorrow morning before work.

All of this does not change the fact that there’s a document covered in the scribblings of a professor lurking in a binder, waiting for me to read, absorb, and figure out where to go from here. I can only hope my annotated bibliography is acceptable.

And that I can come up with a good paper topic by 11 am Monday.

Time Management

According to my Research professor, the margin of error for English studies is 0%. A few moments of fear gave way to the understanding that I do expect that level of accuracy in my English texts, and research. Facing such exacting standards, I have to say that I have come to expect great things of the people I work and socialize with, and have recently become less forgiving of foibles.

Which brings me to tonight’s annoyance. 7:15 pm, the night of an outing, is an unacceptable time to ask if I’m coming. It is unacceptable if it is the first mention of an event that I have received. It is in some ways a blatant disregard of my own needs, although I do appreciate the spirit in which the invitation was given.

However….I am a full-time student with a part-time job. I want to reduce my hours at work so that I have more time to work on my class requirements, and other activities that can augment my education and future career. As such, I don’t have a great deal of free time, and the time I have is very precious to me. I cannot engage in spur of the moment antics. If you want to go out, and want me to join in, I need a few days to arrange my school responsibilities, and consider my schedule to allow for the necessary time to go out, and to recover. I am not the sort of person who can wake up in four hours and then go to work for 8 hours and expect to function at my best. I have obligations that must be met, and enough knowledge of my body’s capabilities to know what is a bad idea.

I am pleased to be invited…but not when I feel like an afterthought of the festivities, and no consideration seems to be given to my schedule. I have made my availability clear, and promised to make people aware when  I am free. Until such time as I am more free with my schedule, due consideration must be given. I extend to you the same courtesy.

On Track

I have been a college graduate for nearly four months. In that time I got a job with a company I admire to cover incidental costs and to keep me going. I began graduate school a week ago in a program that intrigues me, and complements my current skill sets. I have confidence that after my program I will be able to find a good job that I enjoy and supports the lifestyle I choose.

Shortly before I graduated I thought about what I wanted to do with those first few months. In actuality, I wanted to be working for the company I’m currently employed by, doing exactly what I’m doing. It’s not the ideal, but it’s what I said I wanted to do. I applied to my graduate program on a whim a month before graduation, with virtually no expectation of what it could be, and it has so far been interesting and made me happy. In theory, I am completely on track to enter adulthood.

So…what happens now? Now I have to work towards the next step. I don’t have four years of grad school to consider the next step. I have one year before I need to buckle down into thesis work. One year before I need to begin applying to a Ph.D program, which means one year to find a program that I want, in a location I desire. As of now, it’s Glasgow.

A few weeks ago I would have been discouraged with my life plan. I’m not entirely content with every aspect of my life, but that lightly sketched plan of last April has become a reality, and is developing into a better experience than I could have thought. This is perhaps the first time in many years that virtually everything has worked out as I wished. Now, I just need to continue this trend.

On a side note…If anyone has resumes and cover letters, or has friends who wouldn’t mind sending them my way to use as I may…It’s a minor project….

Three Things Remain

In the wake of Susan Boyle’s appearance on Britain’s Got Talent and my weekend with the Baldwin ladies, I’ve spent my YouTube time watching more clips of of Britain’s Got Talent and “Any Dream Will Do”, mainly because I don’t get BBC America service on campus. I have moments of obsession periodically, and this is certainly one of them.

As a result of my Arts Management class I’ve also become hyper-aware of the arts in my local community, and in the bigger picture of my worldview. So, I’m watching these clips of talented (or hopeless) singers and dancers and I’m thrilled at all the talent I haven’t heard of. For the first time, I’m glad that Simon Cowell is the egotistical jerk he is. At the very least, Susan Boyle got a chance for wherever she’ll go.

Now, I’m watching clips of “Any Dream Will Do”; I’ve always decried these audition shows. The US attempt to cast “Grease” happened, but I don’t remember it being a huge part of my viewing life, or any one’s. I thought of them as a selling out of sorts, giving up what dignity there is in live theatre to be a knock-off of “Idol”. Except for a few major differences I’ve noticed:

1: Andrew Lloyd Webber. Britain’s got him, a mega-hit composer with some of the biggest musicals ever on his resume. And he’s still working. Who do we have? Jonathan Larson left us too soon, Jason Robert Brown is almost invisible, and Stephen Sondheim is older, and a little dark. So…who could cast? I can’t think of anyone.

2: John Barrowman (and Denise Van Outen): Meet the judges; actors with West End cred and broad appeal. And when I say West End cred, I don’t mean Hasselhoff thinks he can pull off Jekyll and Hyde. I mean specials, albums, full runs, everything. These are pros, and Barrowman’s got Torchwood. And as many of our notable actors take the time for Broadway, it tends to be straight plays. Maybe a little Neil Patrick Harris? He’s done the Sondheim. We all like him.

3: Compact: The UK isn’t that big, really. You do a national show about a Broadway production, do you really think it’s that easy for the population of the rest of the nation to make it to NYC? Not really. It’s a six-ish hour bus ride, and I can’t be bothered.

4: A really good arts tradition. We don’t get this in America. We fight to lower the NEA funding. I have to fight to get people to go to shows. Why are we so artistically lame?

That’s all I can handle for now. I’ve been denied my Arcadia in favor of Copenhagen.

I found the problem

Today in my film class a fellow student brought up the hideous truth that a remake of “Bonnie and Clyde” is in the works, starring Hilary Duff and the kid from the “Air Bud” movies (the dog? one student asks…now that has potential). As we lamented the awful reality of the remake, I thought of the still rumoured “Footloose” remake. When first I heard of this Zac Efron was the obvious choice.

And then he pulled out. To be a “serious” actor. He didn’t want to be labelled by his roles in “High School Musical” or “Hairspray”. No, he’s going to be a “real” actor. Real actors don’t do musicals. Real actors only do musicals when there are no other options (see Pierce Brosnan in “Mamma Mia!”). Even Hugh Jackman mentions that studio executives don’t like it when Wolverine decides to trip the light fantastic.

I feel…ranting powers…rising…

Since when is performing in a musical considered “not serious”? Have musicals become as frivolous and silly as those college gross-out films in the vein (yet falling far short of the quality) of “Animal House”? You know what, I’ve gone on about the comeback of the musical before. I’m thrilled, but not when Efron says “no, I’m going to be a real actor. Pas the Shakespeare baby! Imma be a star!”

I think we’ve lost the reality of the musical; like all art forms the musical responds to the times. Look at it historically- In the Golden Age of Hollywood we had epic stories, “Citizen Kane”; and epic musicals, “Singin’ in the Rain”. As we got cynical in the ’60s and ’70s, Fosse gave us “Sweet Charity” and “Cabaret”. We got Rent initially in the ’90s, and waited too long to bring it to the screen. Now look at us: we had “Mamma Mia”; silly good fun, yes. So let’s do “Wicked”. Oh, yes, I can see that. And if Hollywood wants to butcher it, fine. Guess what- interesting characters and issues, plus great music. So let’s bring the musical back properly. Let’s start taking the musical seriously. Ban Disney from the table, but we could do this right, we could make people believe in the musical again, and it could be taken seriously. I mean, when we had Gene and Fred no one could question their talent- singing, dancing, and acting. Now we disregard that? No! I refuse to let my favorite genre be pushed aside any longer. We’re bringing it back, and we’re going to be award-worthy. We’re not going to let the songs keep us from seriously considering the content.

Now….shall we talk about Spring Awakening. I think we could do well with that.