When you know you shouldn't be trusted with the welfare of another living creature.

I logged in to blogger today after an 8 month hiatus.  Only to realize that my poor fish, swimming around on that lower right hand corner, had gone without food for at least that long.  That's when my maternal instincts kicked in.  I clicked my mouse over that panel as fast as I could, and sure enough, they were clamoring for some fish food.  Momma's here, little guys.

Ceci n'est pas un hipster.

Now. I'm no fashion blogger. But today Edleman--a website for bougies rich, young professional men in the Silicon Valley--(who came across my resume, which I somehow forgot to take off of MediaBistro) thinks that I am.

But after looking at their site (and in particular falling absolutely in LOVE with the bookbook they have posted there) I thought it might be fun to congregate some of the things I have had my eye on. Or, in the case of the chocolate and soda, had my eye on two hours ago and readily consumed. It was about this moment that I realized: yes. yes, indeed. I do seem to want to be a hipster. (And considering that my friend Kellie's definition of hipster is "someone who denies being a hipster," I'm not quite sure what to make of that. I guess it's a pure Catch-22. Oh, wait! There is a vintage-style t-shirt with THAT image on it, too! I can look both retro and well-read a the same time, for $40.  At any rate, in acknowledging hipsterness, I'll never actually attain it. Which I'm somehow very okay with, considering my self-consciousness of, oh, buying $40 shirts with retro book covers on them.)

Actually more on that. I think, certainly, I have the hipster tendencies. I have big, dark glasses. Have three bookshelves. Frequent organic food aisles more and more frequently. And really, really, really want a fixie. You know, buying a 1970's racing bike frame and fixing it up? And yet my friends reassure me, anxiously, that I'm not hipster. All the symptoms are there. (Except I've mercifully avoided the androgynous Bebian haircut.)

I'm going to avoid the obnoxious cyclical, pseudo-philosophical discussion on whether a person's classification can be defined by one's self or if it's up to external interpretation and perception. Mostly because it will inevitably move towards Stanley Fish and I hate, hate, hate Stanley fish. But also because people like Magritte (whom I flippantly and pretentiously quoted for this blog title) have already done a better job. Also: I haven't read any theory recently, and I'm no longer technically in academia, so I'm afraid I would just sound like a would-be academic rather than a real academic. You know, those "independent scholars" that people roll their eyes at at conferences.

So, really, there is no point to putting this up here, I suppose, except to prove, I guess, that the 1 hour I spent congregating these items into one image wasn't a total self-indulgence. Oh, who am I kidding. This blog, if anything, screams self-indulgence.

Mostly when I look at the above, I see awesome. And also one paycheck's worth of merchandise. Dangerous.

Mixing Business and Pleasure

For those of you who don't know, I've started an awesome new job. I'm a writer-editor with the government's Office of Inspector General. We do audits and investigations, making sure that all runs smoothly in our government and that we're meeting not only our program objectives but also the needs of the nation through our programs. I love it. Nearly as much as I love Harry Potter. Which made me think: what if I combined them? What if I audited Harry Potter? Or J.K. Rowling?

It might look something like this:

In another instance, we discovered that a member of the Wizarding community has published seven extensive books on life and events in the Magical world with a Muggle publisher, which are sold in Muggle bookstores. While publishing it under the guise of fiction -- and thereby circumventing Statute of Secrecy disclosure clauses -- the books have become vastly popular, selling over 400 million copies and being translated into 67 languages. The author receives frequent correspondence with Muggle children, requesting admittance to Hogwarts. While the books have been banned in some Muggle schools, the household nature of these books has become too significant to overlook. As it stands, the author has not violated any direct requirements or laws of imposed by the Statute of Secrecy. However, the Wizarding world, most particularly the Ministry of Magic, must deal with the consequences of even "fictional" disclosure, including a higher traffic of sight-seers hoping to enter Platform 9 3/4 and attempting to enter Ministry premises through toilets and telephone booths.  Ministerial departments and divisions are ill-equipped to deal with this rising situation. . .

Ministry of Magic, if you are reading this, I have some sexy and new innovations for your organization.  But, until the Ministry of Magic starts hiring, I guess I'm okay being incredibly (and probably inexplicably) nerdy in Washington, D.C.

I Write Like. . .

I'm not sure if anyone has heard -- though I've certainly heard from certain outraged friends who may or may not have gotten unpleasant results -- that there is a new website out there to tell you what literary great (debatable, but to be discussed later) you write like. Well, this will hardly surprise anyone those who know the extent of my passion for Harry Potter. I got J.K. Rowling when I plugged in some of my writing.

Now, I'm not saying she's a literary great. She's engaging and imaginative. She writes clearly (and better than me). One very notable difference between her and me  is -- well, aside from the Oxford degree -- that she happens to have a great deal of money and I? Well, let's just not go there. Hopefully a job will be coming shortly.

What I am saying is that it could have been worse. My aforementioned outraged friends got Dan Brown. That's right. I send pity their way. Stephanie Meyer is also a menacing prospect. In fact, after plugging in some of my thesis and getting H.P. Lovecraft as a result, I'm beginning to wonder if their list consists of primarily sci-fi and fantasy authors. Or if that's the only thing I'm capable of producing. (Which, I will note, is not what I write. I write criticism on that stuff. It's quite different. -hem-)

So, who do you write like? Props if you can pull off Faulkner. Creepy points if you pull off Nabokov. And all honors if you actually get Hemingway. I covet your writing. If you got some unpleasant results, you can take consolation in this: after plugging in an excerpt from Hemingway's "True at First Light" and he, apparently writes like Leo Tolstoy. As it turns out, they don't know you. Or Hemingway. Everyone is misunderstood.

Case-in-point? On one instance, got James Joyce. (Oh, dear, and I was so hoping for Stephanie Meyer!)

I write like
J. K. Rowling

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

Cram Session Ritual.

In case you've been wondering what I've been doing the past two months, here are the components of a fully-fledged write-a-thon.

1. Solitary confinement.
Stay in your room for days on end.

2. Popcorn.
Stove-popped popcorn and plenty of it.

3. Dance parties.
Well thank goodness my ribs work well enough now to let me do isolations  because I don't know how I could make it through my thesis without them. Lady Gaga, it's nice to have you back in my life. Oops.

4. Diet Coke.
And yes, I did cave on my no Diet Coke resolution. Tough.

5. Oh, and writing.
Did I mention I'm averaging 18 pages every two days?
UPDATE: I have written 80+ pages in the past three weeks. If I can't brag here, I don't know where I can. Oh, yeah. Facebook.

I'll see you all on the 27th.

Word and Flesh

So lately I've been thinking that I haven't done a lot of thinking. As it's summer, I've gotten complacent in my education -- rhetorical, academic, and spiritual. I'm trying to fix that with this post -- trying to get what has been swirling in my head since my Milton and rhetoric courses last year. What follows might seem garbled, but in the absence of being able to post in my course blog, I've found that I need to sometimes just fill these little white texts boxes with words. (Don't worry, ma. I'm working on filling my white word documents with words for my thesis, too.)

I've been thinking that, come September, when the hubbub of Gothic scribbling has ended, I'll look into the Lingua Adamica and rhetorical theory in light of my religion. For those of you who do not know, I am a Mormon (i.e. a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) and one of our most core beliefs is that Jesus Christ is our Savior and atoned for mankind. Our ability to understand Him and, likewise, His ability to save us, is made possible only through His condescencion -- that is, becoming mortal and living on this earth and sharing of the Fall of Adam.

In August, I'll be going through the temple, a step in our mortal existence which we (as Mormons) believe enables us to make sacred and important covenants with our Heavenly Father in order to fully utilize the blessings of Christ's sacrifice and atonement. (For more on temples, please visit our official website. It really is a valuable resource on learning, first-hand, what we believe, know, and feel on the matter.) The temple is regarded to be the House of the Lord -- a place on earth so holy that He can occupy it with His presence and spirit -- and where we can, for a time, put aside the world and learn more about our eternal heritage.

What I've been considering recently, as I read my scriptures is this: we know that Christ made the first condescention in becoming mortal for us. The Word made Flesh. But I'm thinking there is a necessary and inevitable step that also must be made in order to become comprehensible to us as fallen beings: the Flesh become Word. Christ Himself did not record His life but rather allowed his prophets to chronicle it. Many scholars debate the accuracy and validity of these words. Were they written as first-hand accounts? Did these men know Christ? Does it even matter? I've reconciled, some time ago, that any error found within my scriptures is the error of mankind. (Yes, yes. For once I agree with Derrida.) Human transcribers cannot be perfect; in fact, human language cannot be perfect. As Derrida is keen to point out in Grammatology, there are multiple meanings, multiple translations, errors brought about by the wear and tear of time and a translator's choice in alternative meanings . . . (For an example of this, see the Joseph Smith Translation -- JST -- of the Bible.) To me, this is a second violence which Christ and our Heavenly Father subject themselves to, not unlike the first, which furthers my appreciation for them. As Christ allowed us to feel the nails in His hands and feet and to know of Him, learn of Him, and follow Him, so, too does He allow us to speak of Him, testify of Him, and encounter Him through Words expressed by Him, but mediated through someone else.

Mediation, as we know from Derrida, allows confusion between signifier and signified. . . It allows for error, but it also allows for personal interaction, interpretation, and interference, which need not all be bad things. I am someone who firmly believes in personal revelation and a direct connection through God. But, as I've come to think, God is experienced through me -- I cannot help but see through my own eyes. I'm mortal; it happens. But He allows us to experience and express Him ourselves, in part submitting to us in order for us to come to Him. But ultimately, of course, we are to come to Him. . . not he to us.

I'm curious; I look forward to exploring the linguistic rammifications of this. Medieval and Renaissance scholars (largely of the Kabbalistic tradition) such as Paracelsus (actually not Jewish. I modify my previous comment) strove to achieve once more the Lingua Adamica: the unmediated language of Adam -- before the Fall. Before there was a disjunct between Being and Meaning and Existing. Before form conflicted with matter. Of course, this is the very language that both Derrida and Nietzsche would say is impossible, but I'm curious: is this a pre-Fall language? And what does it mean about or own language and our relationship with God if we have to mediate with a defunct system of words?

I think it's beautiful in a way that only such things can be beautiful. It's mortality and flaws are what make it extremely personal and intimate, but its promise of transcendence just makes my heart swell. I think it shows the mercy and the willingness of God and our Savior to come to our level and attempt to become knowable in the only way we know how, even if at great risk to themselves.

And, because everyone else is doing it, I'll reference Inception. Cobb goes to Limbo in search of his wife, Mall and finally, when given the choice to settle for a dreamed-up Mall or the Real Deal (arguable which he chooses and I wouldn't mind hearing your thoughts on that, either), tells her, sadly, that she is but a shade: he cannot imagine her with all her perfections and imperfections. I'm thinking that that is how we must view God. There is a limited, myopic scope on the world, view, and language we have today. Our God is ours -- that is, we've tried to imagine and experience Him as best we know how through what tools we've been given. But ultimately, He is but a shade (don't worry. I'm not spouting heresy. Hang on a second.) I therefore look forward to a time when, beyond the veil, we can see through not our own eyes but His -- where we can see God in his Totality. I think of the fortunate prophets in the past who have been transfigured to see God in glory, who have indeed been able to see God with God's eyes, not their own. I think that this is the Lingua Adamica, and I think it is what we are striving for -- something beyond this life, this view, this understanding.

Now, isn't it nice to know that Derrida can actually help you understand the meaning of life and the Gospel? If only I could make Neitzsche do the same. . .

Anyone have any good reads on this topic (both rhetorical or spiritual) that could help me look further into this? Any thoughts? I realize I don't have the most avid readership (hahaha), but if you do come across this, I'd love to hear what you believe -- regardless of what belief-system you subscribe to.

BENTLEY DISCOVERED AFTER 1.5 MONTH DISAPPEARANCE

PRESS RELEASE for immediate distribution:

Melissa Bentley, 25, a Master's Student at Georgetown, has been discovered in her bedroom--alive. After a month and a half disappearance, roommates were alerted to her presence when the coca-cola can debris spilled out from her 10'x10' room into the hallway.

"I had no idea; she studies really quietly, I guess," one roommate said of the alarming discovery. "Of course I was beginning to wonder, but I thought Melissas hibernated at this time of year, so I wasn't too concerned. If she wasn't sleeping, though, you have to wonder what she's been up to."

While this time last year, another roommate recalled, Melissa had written both mathematical equations and paper flow charts on her windows in whiteboard marker with the feverish intensity of John Forbes Nash, Jr., a recent investigation of Melissa's room has yielded few clues. However, records show Melissa has accrued over the past semester 40+ books which she has nearly completed reading. Now that the list is almost complete, it appears that Melissa is growing more intrepid, even leaving her habitat in search of interpersonal encounters.

In an emergence more monumental than Punxsutawney Phil's, last Friday, Melissa crossed the threshold into her front room. Upon seeing her shadow, she scurried back into her room, a fully transformed nocturnal creature. This week, she has undergone several expeditions to the Georgetown Library where, once, she recalls, after sitting still for eight hours, the native freshmen who frequent the area grew so accustomed to her presence they resumed their customary conduct of making-out. "Yeh, I'm not going back any time soon," she stated, rubbing the back of her neck.

Melissa's "social sabbatical," she has said on her personal blog, will end on May 13th. Until then, Melissa welcomes donations of baked goods, caffeinated (Mormon-kosher) beverages, and witty and idle facebook messaging to break the tedium of finals and Orals Examinations.

Pretty, Pretty Princess

So just a couple of weeks ago, when I was home, I was drawing for my niece. My family didn't seem to know that I do this from time to time. I'd say hidden talents, but 1. talent is debatable and 2. my nieces have certainly tapped into this resource of having customized coloring books whenever I come to visit them.


Since I have three little-girl nieces in Utah, it has simply become just instinct. Sit down in front of little girl, draw picture. Watch picture be covered in purple watercolor. Then orange. Then erased. I learned never do something you don't want to do three times over (or, however many times x number of girls would like this repeated . . .) But I've found I enjoy it. So much so that I just drew one today. Unfortunately I have no niece here to sit down and watercolor or erase the thing. . .




I miss my family! At least I have a viable 5-minute pastime.

Horsie-Love

So, don't read too much into this. Yes, that's right. I'm asking you to read it, but not read into it. If you think you can, you're welcome to read on.

If not, there is this.

Anyhow, so I was watching t.v. the other day (that was a test. For those of you who know me, you may know that I cancelled my cable months ago.) So, months ago, I was watching the History Channel as I carefully shaded a coloring book page from my niece. A woman was speaking. I wasn't listening, being very happy coloring Hello Kitty's nose pink.

"You want them smart, but not too smart. If they're too smart, they'll figure out a way to get around what you tell them to do. If they're not smart enough, they never figure it out."

It sounded like something a former roommate would say on her man-hunts. I looked up. The woman, in a lavender chambray button-up and feathered hair (itself antiquated enough to be befitting the History Channel) leaned against a peeling fence in what appeared to be Ireland's rolling hills. Was she talking about what I thought she was talking about?

Cut to Romans on horseback. Apparently not.

My mistake.

Cut back to the woman in lavender, now crouched over to scratch a foal's fuzzy nose and give it a kiss.

Well, maybe. . .

Smear and Stare

First, let me explain the title of this blog.

I've noticed, recently, that the difficult conversations begin with "so":

"So, I've been thinking a lot about this and. . ."

"So, I've read your proposal; it's good, but. . ."

"So, I know you said earlier that. . ."

"So" is, for me, a very difficult word to understand, much less to define. At one level, it acts as a referent in acknowledging preceding conversations, history, what have you. It can excuse and explain -- "and so, you see. . ." -- and it can be positive "it's not so bad, Melissa." Or negative: "that's so bad, Melissa!" And it can just be. A filler of space, a purchaser of time, and a chance to think. The spontaneous, the tall-tales, and the everyday conversations also start with it. So. . .

What does "so" mean to me exactly? I don't aim to find out, really. Just to find the many uses of "so". And to put them to use.

Now, without much further ado, on to something my addled brain's thought up. It's a random thought, I know, but it begins with a "so," so I think it appropriate today.:

So I'm looking through my window at a 5:30 AM, pre-dawn Arlington in the rain, through smeared notes I've written in whiteboard marker on the window from last week's brainstorm. For whatever reason -- I've forgotten -- it's a sequence of numbers.

I've always hated numbers, but I like their smear and how right now, I don't see them but through them, and how from here, they mix with the rain drops on the other side, even if they never touch.

MORE GHOSTS!!!

So you may or may not know that I have embarked upon my thesis project, which I have entitled "Ghosts of Education" and focus on the 1798 text by F. C. Patrick, More Ghosts!!! Yes. There are three exclamation points in the title. Bet you didn't know there was such a thing before texting, did you?

Anyhow, I will be looking at various Gothic satires written by women in the 1790's, including F. C. Patrick's More Ghosts!!! and Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey to explore how authority is asserted and nationalized through education and strict binaries and how, in turn, satire itself functions as a subversive educational tool. Fascinating.

But really. I've got a protagonist named Thomas Grey, occasional transvestitism, possible incests, phantasms, and a dead cat all in the first five pages. Really, really great stuff. Hollywood, I hear, is in negotiations with good ol' Fleenor C. for the movie rights.

Curious what a Gothic satire might look like? Well, not too different from this, really:

What is Love?

So,  Burtie came into town to visit! Much dancing, laughing, rib-cracking, North-and-Southing, and cookie-making ensued. In that order. It was great to have my various worlds collide. As I suspected, my fabulous friends got along fabulously and I just can't wait until I see a mass immigration of everyone awesome to DC. (We are working on this, right?) Burtie and I got a chance to go around Georgetown and the National Mall, stopping to take various photos. We drank hot chocolate, and with Marissa, watched the best love story of all time (North and South) and made chocolate chip cookies--the food of love--but didn't get a chance to hold hands as we went ice skating. Mostly because I rebroke my ribs. Darn. Well, all in all, I'd say  a very Valentinesy time was had by all. We even stopped in at the National Gallery to visit some of my favorite paintings.

Sadly, one of my favorite paintings, the botanist, is no longer there.

That's right. The dark, curly haired botanist with his geraniums isn't there. And I deeply feel this loss. RIP geranium man! (On an optimistic note, I found a statue of Nathan Hale there. Perhaps I'll have a new work of art to stalk after all.)

-M

Inauguration Day

Superman in the "Seinfeld and Superman" Visa Commercials once said, infamously, "hindsight is 20/20." Unlike Superman, I haven't locked my keys in the car yet, but I do think it's a good idea to retroactively blog. Since, you know . . . I haven't been.

So it is without further ado I present to you: INAUGURATION DAY!

The day started out at 5 a.m. After making breakfast for (and with) a crew who had gone salsa dancing until 2 a.m. we all somnambulistically (yay, I get to use my favorite word!) emerged into the 18 degree weather of D.C. to witness the infamous event.

The metro was alive with bright, happy faces. (For those D.C. natives, you will know that, hour aside, this is unheard of. I learned in my first week not to smile, look at, acknowledge, or well-wish anyone on the metro. Those who do talk to me, I can now safely label "tourist." Only a totally random aside from my already lengthening aside . . . I have never seen quite so many Romance novels--no, not the ones I'm studying; the ones with Fabio on the cover and contents that make me blush--in one place before. I guess this is another reason why people don't want to be looked at on the metro. I know I wouldn't, and I'm only reading semi-pornographic 18th Century Gothic Literature. I guess maybe I understand Brigham Young's snide remarks about novels. . .) What? Oh. Obama. Right.

After walking a good distance to the Mall, we managed to secure ourselves some spots by the second teleprompter. Pretty close, as my photos indicate, but we couldn't see Obama directly. In fact, we didn't see him for many hours. Our panic-induced rush on the Capitol resulted in about 7 hours of idling, during which time I lost feeling in my feet and put my hands up to my mouth to keep them warm. Some kind folks near us let us use one of their fleece blankets, a shock blanket, and several hand warmers. (I really had wished I had had more foresight to purchase fuel for my handwarmer, rather than try to track some down the night before. Apparently the several million tourists also had had the same idea as me.)

Finally the time came. It was momentous. I was disappointed to hear people boo Bush (really? He's on his way out. Can't you just let him exit with some dignity?) but was happy at least for their support of Obama. I hope it lasts. And I hope I feel my toes again soon.

It's ALIIIIIIVE!

Well, I'm still alive. Were some of you wondering?

As promised, I forgot to check other peoples' blogs, forgot how to update my blog, forgot about the blog altogether . . . but I didn't forget you. (It's a communal "you" at this point. To all the people I should be calling on the phone, I apologize.)

I've started a new semester at my graduate program at Georgetown in DC. It's an interesting experience, to say the least. I'm TAing this semester with a person who has taught for years in the prison and at first I was worried. After all, on the first day of class, she goes face-to-face with one of the 6'7" basketball players (one of my students) and says "If you and I go head-to-head, you. will. lose." Well! 

But we've got the "good cop-bad cop" relationship down well now, and the students go to me for approachability. Unfortunately, "good cop" can't teach very well, but we're working on that. I'll be teaching Frankenstein this month and am about scared senseless. First class did not go well due to some under-planning (she gave me 35 minutes to teach instead of the promised 5) and it consisted of me asking "So, uh, what do you guys think of when you hear the word 'Gothic?' Yeah? Interesting. Well, uh. . . what do you think of when you hear the word . . . 'Romantic?' Great. Let me write this down on the board. . ."

The good news is that I am bound to make an improvement. If, you know, I stop procrastinating and finish reading the book I'm about to teach. Yeah. But I'm getting some snide remarks on not updating my blog.

I told you not to expect anything, so I don't feel the least bit compassionate to your pleas. But yes, I am alive. . . :)

Oh, on a side-note, I broke three ribs from a cough. How is that even possible? I'm trying to come up with a good cover-story (because GU students might not appreciate an invalid). Ideas thus far are 1. cage-fight. 2. stampeding (insert animal here) 3. roommate came at me with a golf club.

Only Dull People are Brilliant at Breakfast

There are two phases of my life:

1. The anti-morning phase: 23 years.*

2. The morning phase: 8 months.

This being the case, I can have some sympathy with Oscar Wilde's addage from An Ideal Husband, the title of my blog. Along with "I always carry my journal with me. One should always have something sensational to read on the train" (Gwendolen, The Importance of Being Ernest).  Only, as you might suspect, I don't keep a regular journal.

You will likely not see any pictures of breakfast, or mornings. In fact, you may not see many pictures at all, if things keep up at the rate they are going. But, I'll have you know I've finally created the blog I've so long promised. Feel free to visit my equally sparse other blogs. You know, once I manage to figure out how to attach them to this site.

--Melissa

*This statement's accuracy relies upon my mother's account that I have "always been a night person." I myself can't vouch for the fact before five years of age.