Putting My Life Into Boxes

Paging All Gilmore Girls Fans

I have been told I look like David Sutcliffe who plays Rory's dad, aka "Christopher," on Gilmore Girls.

What do you think?

David Sutcliffe:


Me (with my niece Caroline):

Seriously.

Applied Conversational Rhetoric

English majors become English majors for a variety of reasons. Some love stories, some love the act of reading, some love to write, and some simply love beautiful language. While I kind of like most of those things, none of them made me want to become an English major. I became an English major because I love thinking about how language accomplishes things.

Early in my undergraduate career I took an amazing course in literary theory from a professor I loved. In that course we focused heavily on impossibility of language to perfectly transmit the speaker's intents to the listener's ears. In other words, the words we speak don’t’ contain meaning; rather, meaning is inferred from a system of socially constructed rules. For example, speakers of English all agree that the word "tree" refers to a class of plants with bark, leaves, and branches--but nothing in the word "tree" gives that away. In fact, when I say "tree" I might be thinking of a sequoia, but you might be thinking of a bonsai. And that difference could make a world of difference: "watch out, the tree is falling!" If I thought you meant the bonsai I would be less alarmed than if I thought you meant the redwood. That is a simple example, but more complex examples are easily found in our daily conversations. The following story is a good example.

Once gave a friend an old computer of mine with a broken screen. She fixed the screen and used it for a long time, several years. Then she decided to get a new computer, and so I asked for it back. But when she was shopping for a new computer she had included money she thought she could gain from selling it into her budget. This much of the story illustrates how various socially constructed conceptions of "gift" can be interpreted differently and can lead to potential squabbles. In this situation, however, my friend and I already came to the situation with the preconceived notion that the other person had good motives. (Assuming good motives on the part of the other always the best move.) What could have been a falling-out turned into nothing at all.

The story continues with a text message conversation (the fact that we were texting increased the potential for misunderstanding, but that is a complicated and digressive subject). In that texting conversation I said something I shouldn't have, "Maybe I do want it back... am I an indian giver?"

Her response: "your racist".

I felt sick. I'm supposed to know better, I have a master's degree in English, for crying out loud! I felt guilty. But as people often do, I covered my guilt with indignation. How dare she call me a racist! And how dare she call me a racist with improper grammar! I wasn't livid, but I was a little worked up and embarrassed... especially because this is a person whose opinion means a lot to me. So I brainstormed, edited, and re-edited several responses:

"my racist what?" Intended to mock her poor grammar. Mean, I know!

"did you see that seinfeld episode?" Referring to the Seinfeld episode where Jerry dates an American Indian and can't avoid calling her an "indian giver." This response would have been meant to imply that I was joking in my response and that she clearly missed the joke. This was, of course, a lie and so my OCD wouldn't let me go through with it.

"guess I'm not perfect" A martyr's route intended to make her feel bad for my mistake.

"sorry to offend" Too short, sounds mocking.

"I'm sorry to have offended you, but I hope you know me well enough that a slip of my tongue doesn't betray a racist heart." So close. But let's change the word betray:

result from? indicate? connote? denote? bespeak? symptomatic of? reflect? Yes, reflect. And while we're at it, let's change the word "heart," sounds too cheesy. And and in a "to know." The result:

"I'm sorry to have offended you, but I hope you know me well enough to know that a slip of my tongue doesn't reflect a racist attitude."

Did I obsess?

Yes.

Absolutely.

But I'm glad I did because her response was priceless: "i was totally joking." Was I relieved I took the time to craft a well-worded response! (The irony of the situation is, of course, that I just prided myself on assuming good motives but I failed to in this situation.)

The moral of the story: the complexities language cause real problems, but the careful use of language can minimize those problems.

In that undergraduate class, years ago, we focused on the problems of language: but I soon grew tired of this. Because the more I thought about language, the more I was convinced that the vast majority of the time language works. People fall in love. Bridges are built. Airplane tickets are bought. People's eyes are cut open, sewed back together and then they can see again even better than before... and all this because of the fact that language accomplishes something most of the time.

Killing Literature and Loving It

In the spirit of Seth Grahame-Smith's ingenious travesty Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I give you "Night of the Living Lady of Shalott," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson and Michael Scott Henriksen....


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

But a hunger stirred within her still,
Endowing her corpse with undead will;
And though the knights repaired to kill,
They knew not how her blood to spill,
This plague on Camelot.
She stumbled forward, their flesh to eat,
And a wave of panic swept the street.
Lancelot’s brains were warm and sweet
For the Lady of Shalott.

***


Can you guess which parts he wrote and which parts I wrote? I dare you to try.

worth sharing

cnn's freudian slip

I'm a news addict, I check the cnn.com hourly. Look what I found on cnn just a few minutes ago:

Look closer:

Something look funny to you?

Cnn quickly fixed it:

But the damage is done. From this Freudian slip we now know that cnn misses Bush. I guess all that "liberal bias" was just a front to keep people from guessing about the true nature of cnn and Bush's relationship. Don't be surprised if the paparazzi catches a picture of cnn and Bush sneaking around a beach or something.