February 28

February 27

February 26

February 25

Play-Dough

This semester has offered me many new students, new courses and new
conversations. The classes have been moving along, down a wild river,
and I am in the back with the rudder, steering us down the routes I
have planned, occassionally going to one side or the other for the
excitement of the passengers. Occassionally, we hit rapids, even
rocks. Sometimes it is exilerating, sometimes unnerving. Sometimes we
see things I have forgotten, or I get to see anew through their eyes.

Last week, some of my students were talking with a philosopher. I
enjoy philosophy, but this man's speciality was ancient Greek
philosophy. The more I listened, the more I thought, this is the
stupidest thing I have ever heard. Has no one had any interesting
thoughts since then? Do our arguments now have so little merit
compared to Plato?

My students wanted to relate this to their own experiences. They asked
about Plato's intent. "No no, no one knows or cares what the intent
was. That's how we should look at art too. Artists don't always know
what they are doing and are idiots at explaining it."

Needless to say, I had to step in.

Later, my student came up and said, "if the artist's intent doesn't
matter, why have I been working on this artist statement for so long?"

"You are not two thousand years dead," I said. "You are a living
artist working in a post- (post- ?) modern period. Of course it
matters. Once it's out there people will try to take what they want,
but you will have controlled the context and your insights help
historians and critics put it in context."

Or something like that. I began debating whether I should assign
"Death of the Author," even if it was the one reading I couldn't bear
to look at in grad school.

Last night, I saw our production if "the Pillowman." I almost laughed
at the irony and relevance of the themes (except I was near tears at
the intensity of my student's performance, who performed with such
energy and abandon, he fell to the stage and concussed himself): a man
who would rather kill his brother and be put to death than see his
creations destroyed (even if they are unseen). Is the death of the
author preferable to the death of the content? We certainly hope all
our love and sweat and pain can communicate on their own, possibly
outliving us. Maybe the "gist" of it will suffice in that
circumstance, that the reader will get what they will (at least, they
think they got it on their own), and go on and respond to it, never
knowing they are doing and thinking exactly what the author wanted
them to.

Right now, I am on a plane (offline, don't worry). I was so tense
about the crowd and the luggage area and the stuffy hot plane air, I
sat in the wrong seat (D instead of C, both on the aisle). When the
rightful owner arrived, I saw my mistake and began to move. "Dont
worry," he said, and took my assigned seat. I looked over at him later
to see what he was reading (one of my quirky, nosey plane habits). I
couldn't tell, but the man in B, next to my assigned seat, was reading
Plato.

Dodged that bullet.

Sent from my iPhone

February 24

February 23

February 22

February 21

February 20

February 19

February 18

Typing- More details

I lift a page from the right and place it in the typewriter.

I type, left to right, from top to bottom.

I remove the paper from the typewriter and stack it, face down to the left.

I resist the urge to reread it. I smile when I see the spelling mistakes.

February 17

Virtual reality

I gave my first ever web talk this evening. I could see a group of
silhouettes standing against my work, their arms crossed. If I waved
at them, someone from the back waved back. But mostly it was a silent,
dark group, almost like a photograph held up to the webcam in another
state. Yet it was fun. There were some questions and individuals would
step forward to speak into the mic, their faces triumphantly appearing
as their voices became solid over the roar of the heating vent in my
office. (I spent a half hour before the talk tidying my bookshelves so
they would make a nice backdrop. I stacked books on my desk to raise
my lamp up to create Rembrandt lighting, which I then diffused with a
napkin and a paperclip.)
It was fun. I would do it again.

Sent from my iPhone

February 16

February 15

Typing

I have not been typing here lately. It is difficult to separate the personal and the public. There are things you don't want to say here, and you find you can't say them at all. To solve this, I am revisiting a project I have planned on and off for eleven years, a typing ritual on an actual typewriter. I have been typing two pages a day for about a week, and plan to do it as long as possible. More news to come down the like, and I decide what this piece will look like to the public, but for now, this is what it looks like.

February 14

Friday nights in Indiana

I am at the local coffee shop, Moondance Cafe. The normally close at
6pm, but stay open till 8 on Friday. One of my coworkers is performing
with his band right now. I've seen them before briefly. It is cold
outside, considering how sunny it has been. I walked down here to see
this, to save me from the monotony of tv or the internet. Now that I
am here, I find myself alone with that band. I can't decide which of
us is more sad.

Sent from my iPhone

February 13

February 12

February 11

February 10

February 9

Quote from Journal

08-03-2001
Three different homeless men talked to me today. I didn't linger to chat, since I was on a photo mission. One said, "You look happy. That's good." Of course I am. I'm on a photo mission.

February 8

Here to where?

Every day, there will be a moment when I look around and think,
"what am I doing in Indiana?"

Several times a week, I overhear California.
At the grocery store:
"My daughter is out in California."
"I would like to be there right now."

It was in the high 50s today. All the snow melted. By the time I left to run my errands, the sky was drab and overcast, and though it wasn't hot, it was humid and slightly uncomfortable. My good mood left like the sun.

February 7

February 6

What is my hair doing?

February 5

It's really cold, but I have been walking to work everyday!

February 4

February 3

February 2

February 1