Up in the air

Goodness, it was windy today. I went for my regular Monday morning run, and, on the long walk back to the trailhead, I really felt its bite. (It was a mighty cold wind, which really took me by surprise.) It was still blowing hard this evening when it was time to coach — so much so that I had to wear my running tights to practice. This, of course, occasioned the now-usual questions of whether or not I was, in fact, wearing underwear under my tights by my nine and ten year old charges. (I also learned from them that you ought to not eat dandelions, but it’s quite alright if you colour yourself with them like something out of Lord of the Flies. Suffice to say, it was a highly amusing practice.) I’m not telling.

I’ve felt like I’ve been playing hooky these last few Mondays, but I’ve really needed the time away from the office to get a fair few things sorted for classes. As I mentioned in yesterday’s posts, I’ve been diligently rereading every new text I’m teaching this term, and as there are six of them, that means I’m in rather more need of some quiet time than is usual for me. And, though I pride myself at being more available than most during term-time weekdays, I’ve been spending my Mondays mainly at home, lost in a good book. As for any guilt I feel, I plead childhood Catholicism and that I’ve become a creature of habit. (I’m plotting solutions to both entanglements, mind you, but it’s very much a work in progress.)

I must confess that I’m still rather conflicted about weekday reading at home, but I’ve a feeling that this, too, will pass. (And, besides, I’ve already been thinking not a little about things myself these days.) For now, I’m content enough to hit the trail, get caught up in my reading, and field questions of dubious relation to soccer. I must say that I’ve been awfully productive this afternoon (at least in terms of class preparation), and there are still a good couple of hours’ worth of reading left to me tonight. (I ought to start marking some papers, but they can wait until tomorrow.) Today’s a reading sort of day, which is to say, a very good sort of day. As for the rest of the week, it’s very much up in the air.

Fighting words

I’m at something of a loose end tonight, and thought that, as it’s been a fair while since I last posted, a freshly pressed writing was possibly in order. I’m currently taking a break between two books I’m rereading for this week’s classes: Margaret Atwood‘s Alias Grace and Orhan Pamuk‘s My Name is Red. Whoever decided to assign six or seven texts he’s never taught before during one term has much to answer for, I’ll tell you that for certain. That would be me, of course. And while I’m not especially appreciative of the time-consuming nature of the enterprise, particularly over the long weekend when there’s also marking to be done, I must say that I really quite enjoy teaching both texts. In fact, I’ll be rereading a few chapters more after writing this post.

I’d meant to post about this topic far earlier, but the time just never seemed quite right. Now that enough time has passed, and the statue of limitation on bad behaviour has presumably lapsed, there’s not so much fear of this story’s walking abroad, as it were. The ‘fighting words‘ in question occurred during an Applied Probability Seminar not so terribly long ago. And though I was myself in something of a state of refreshment at the time, I believe that, after comparing notes with others who were there, most of what occurred really did occur — and if it didn’t, it ought to have. Perhaps unsurprisingly, and, as with most disagreements, the burning issue at hand was whether or not Leonard Cohen is (or, perhaps, was) any good. I’m serious.

There had been a previous incident some time ago, presumably also involving the relative merits of Canadian poet-songwriters, that only ended when one of the two parties involved produced a guitar, and demanded that the other ‘play for him’. It was like a scene out of some twisted sort of Midwestern Casablanca. (My thoughts at the time, when first seeing the guitar were that no good could come from it, but, in truth, I was also curious to see what would happen next. I do not understand people at the best of time and, here, I reasoned, was just the sort of opportunity I needed to watch adults resolve differences with other adults. As usual, I was mightily disappointed, particularly as I really quite liked — and like — both of the parties involved.

Indeed, I had occasion to use the Great Leonard Cohen Debate in my last class concerning My Name is Red. Although this new favourite book of mine can also be read as a murder mystery, at the novel’s heart is a profoundly philosophical puzzle: how ought we to perceive art, and, in this case, portraiture in 1591 Istanbul? At a crucial point in the novel, one of the characters, Master Osman, is simply incredulous at what all the fuss is about. Of course, he has his own firm opinions on the matter, but his assessment remains sound: ’What was even more incredible was that they were killing each other over this nonsense.’ I must say that, having listened to what was said on both sides of the divide, I must concur with Master Osman.

It’s not that I don’t have my own firm opinions about books and the like, but, I’m not particularly bothered about what others might make of them. (As I see it, everyone’s entitled to read things as they’d like. It’s just that some readings are better than others — but, once I’m off the clock, as it were, I really don’t see it as my place to say.) Suffice to say, this sort of conflict-adverseness and readerly relativism has served me moderately well over the years. It’s also undoubtedly saved me from more black eyes and hard feelings that I care to reckon. (One perhaps not insignificant example of my own waywardness can be found in ‘A Serious Man‘, a post from some time ago.) I suppose that I always thought that my friends would have far more common sense.

I cannot say precisely how the forbidden topic was broached, though undoubtedly it had something to do with control over the night’s playlist. (For my part, I’m always happy to defer to others’ judgement as to what is to be played or not played. Indeed, I even sat through a nine-minute live performance of Billy Joel’s ‘Piano Man‘ on Friday night that was, frankly, interminable. And I was the host for that evening’s seminar. I do have particular songs and genres I prefer to listen to, but never saw fit to subject everyone else to them. That said, I did once introduce them to Icelandic popular music, and they’ve never let me forget it.) Once the chairs and handbags started flying in earnest, I left the room. As I said, I don’t like conflict.

I was disappointed to have missed folks shouting ‘fascist’ at one another, though. I’ve always had a certain fondness for The Young Ones, and that’s not an everyday sort of insult. (Well, at least not for some time, it hasn’t been.) In fact, I believe that my absence from the more energetic part of the affair has allowed me to look at it with a certain degree of perspective. Indeed, when I did return after a spell away, everyone was awkwardly seated in a proper middle-class manner, although some of the assigned seats had been rearranged. (I can never puzzle out precisely how grown ups can pretend that nothing’s happened, when it most certainly has. But they do.) For my part, I was happy enough to play cards. Everything else was so much stuff and nonsense.

N.B. You might be amused to learn that, when I mentioned Leonard Cohen’s role in the whole affair to my class, there was a certain confusion as to who he was on their part. In the end, the consensus was that he was one of the former frontmen of The Velvet Underground. I was highly amused, but never corrected them. Given some of the language that was allegedly used that night, they were, perhaps, not so far from the mark after all. (Also, I suppose that I quite liked the notion that he really was ‘a frontman’ — their words, not mine — for that particular group. It would have made for a far more interesting debate, that’s for certain.) And, besides, there were books and ideas still to discuss, and, to me, they make more sense.

Life is Elsewhere

The anniversary of my friend’s passing is this Friday, and it really gets a fellow thinking.

Very much unlike me, my friend was a rather more straightforward sort of person. He knew what he wanted from life, and, goodness me, he saw to it that he’d do whatever it took to get it. Whether it was a wonderfully affectionate family, a house with a yard fit for having a proper kickabout, an improperly set-up big-screen television, or a fancy remote control so that he could start his truck from a quarter-mile away, he made it happen. He was also chockfull of folk wisdom, and often tell me that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who work to live, and those who live to work. He was certainly in the former category, and I was most decidedly in the latter. (I’m certain he meant that there was a lesson to be found in that assessment, if only I had sense enough to listen. And, while I cannot say that one course was definitively better than another, it cannot be denied that the man lived — and that, even at the very end, was happy.

Although he’d never quite believe it himself, I’ve slowly found myself coming around to his way of thinking. (And, as my friend often found to his cost, I can be a maddeningly stubborn sod at times. Then again, even maddeningly stubborn sods have the capacity for change, do they not?) Perhaps it’s been that something’s changed over the past year, or perhaps it’s simply that I have. I cannot say for certain. It’s not that I’m unhappy, per se, as I do not really think of myself in those terms, but I’m not happy either — at least not in the sense of how my friend was happy. Now, I might well consider myself content, at least as far as teaching is concerned; I might be thoroughly satisfied, usually after reading an especially good book or after watching an especially good film; I might even be uplifted, following a surprisingly good run or footy result; I might even be, during a particularly profitable Applied Probability Seminar, something approaching smug. But happy? I tell you truly that cannot remember such a time.

All I know is that it seems mightily important for me to see this sense of change, whatever it might mean, through to the end — and if that means life really is elsewhere, then I suppose I must go out and find it. My friend taught me that much, at least.

Get that man a wambulance

My face hurts. More specifically, my nose does, but I’m fairly convinced that the pain’s decided to branch out to even more interestingly inconvenient parts of my facial anatomy. (Is the forehead actually considered to be part of one’s face? I’m uncertain, but I’m pretty sure it hurts there, too.) I was playing soccer this morning of course, and found myself very much unintentionally stopping a strong defensive clearance with my face. I wouldn’t recommend it, particularly when wearing glasses. (If they weren’t sports glasses, I’d likely still be in the infirmary getting them extracted.) But before you phone the wambulance on my behalf, let me assure you that, once my bells stopped ringing, I played on without too much complaint. (I try to save the lion’s share of my whinging for after a match has ended.) I’d mention the parlous predicament that’s befallen my fantasy English Premier League roster this weekend, but then I would need to place that call myself. I need a team captain who will get me some serious points. Stat.

Apologies for another extended absence. The end of term, while it went well enough, left me fairly knackered. It wasn’t too bad, mind, as I’d paced myself, but I decided to take some time away from all things not reading or running related for the duration of spring break. I even managed to visit my hometown for a couple of days, as my father asked for my ‘help’ with some spring cleaning. And while it must be said that I’m not too terribly helpful when it comes to home improvements, I’m always game to lend a hand. (Moreover, my father’s become all-too-familiar with the ‘quality’ of my handiwork over the years.) Even the long drive there and back again wasn’t so bad. The time away was just what I needed, in fact — though it did make for a fairly conspicuous absence on the blogging front. I’m hoping to remedy that condition in the coming days and weeks, though there may well be some periods where I won’t quite get around to it. Spring term’s now well underway, and there’s much to do. At least I know who to call.

A Question of Sport

Spring break’s continuing apace. It’s been uncommonly warm here in the Midwest, and I’ve been my level best to stay uncommonly active. Most breaks, I seem to find myself rather under the weather, which is most inconvenient when it comes to getting things done. This time around, I tried to pace myself, particularly as the end of term neared, so that the customary sorry state of affairs wouldn’t repeat itself. I think I’ve managed it for the most part, though I must say that I had a bit of a funny tummy for most of the day, no doubt caused by my most recent culinary experiment, which left me with rather more leftovers than I knew quite what to do with. I learned that eating them a few days later was not a terribly inspired idea, though it must be said that it did clean out my system, as it were. Then again, there’s always a silver lining when it comes to spring break, isn’t there?

I always try to read something not school related during break. I feel it keeps me rather fresher than if I did nothing but read Renaissance texts or prepare for the coming term. (That said, both of those needful things will continue to fill much of my break.) Even so, last evening and night proved rather exceptional, as I started and finished Elmore Leonard‘s Raylan and reread Roger Zelazny‘s Doorways in the Sand. Neither was particularly lengthy, mind, but reading (or rereading) a book in one go is rather something, I’d like to think. (I’m just not sure what that something might be at times.) I remember one of my favourite professors telling the class that he knew he wasn’t like the other students when he stayed up all night finishing Ayn Rand‘s The Fountainhead. For me, that’s the benchmark of readerly fortitude, if not necessarily quality reading. Of course, I had to attempt something similar when I was in Scotland with Ludovico Ariosto‘s Orlando Furioso, one of the two parts, anyway. After starting the book some time that afternoon, I managed to make my bleary-eyed way homewards at or around four in the morning. For me, it was something that had to be done, but, goodness, those were quite some footnotes to plough through.

I’ve also managed to take in a couple of documentaries from 2010 well worth watching these last two days. Both feature sports I’ve come to know from my time overseas. The first, Senna, is a biopic covering the great Formula One driver’s life and untimely death at the age of 34. I’m by no means a gear-head, but there’s something just so technical about F1 racing that’s always had a certain appeal to me. Also, I never tire of watching the cars careen around the streets of Monaco. That’s proper racing, at least to me. The second film was Fire in Babylon, which followed the rise of the West Indian national cricket team‘s rise to prominence during the 1970s and 1980s. I’d often been told of their greatness during my time in the UK, but only began to follow cricket after having had the intricacies explained to me during a train journey from Oxford to York. An all boys boarding school cricket coach was kind enough to explain the many meanings of the word ‘wicket’ to me, and I haven’t looked back since. I even managed to play in a charity cricket tournament on one occasion, which is no small beer for an American who would still have a hard time playing his way into a little league team. It was wonderful fun, and I’m glad I learned more about the sport only moments ago. (In fact, I’ve just finished watching it.)

Since it’s almost tomorrow, I’ll end here. (That way, I can post later without confusion.) The photograph’s of Jack Russell, who played cricket for England around the time I first took an interest in it. Though he was rather more a tenacious than a particularly inspired player, the man could paint.

Beautiful day

It’s been an interesting day. After rousing myself enough to invigilate my colleague’s final exam, I made my way back home, and, after idly reading for an hour or two, found my way back to bed, whereupon I went back to sleep for a couple more hours. It was a glorious sort of idleness.

It was also a beautiful day. I was, admittedly, somewhat regretful that I had to sleep away part of it, but it had to be done. I tend to postpone most illnesses until breaks, which is a rather maddening state of affairs — and I mean to do things quite differently this term. You see, most breaks, I find myself at one of two extremes: either I decide to get proper rest, or I work out more maniacally than ever. It’s my hope that, with a little bit of luck, I’ll manage to outthink my immune system by doing both. Not only am I doing more work than ever during a break, but I might just have managed to fit in more running and more rest as well. I’m even eating far healthier as well, which, by my usual standards, is nothing short of remarkable. (In fact, I missed a soccer board meeting because I’d only just returned from a twenty-mile ride — my first of the season — and decided that I’d be better served by having another go at that risotto dish I tried out a few weeks back. Two hours, and a fair few pots, pans, and cooking utensils later, and I was ready to eat. I was pretty knackered, mind you, but it was a good sort of knackered. I missed those endorphins all winter, no doubt about it.)

I’ve also been readying all things Pelotonia this week. There’s so much still to be done, that I reckon I’d best make a good fist of it while everyone’s away for the holidays. I’d asked two of my favourite fitness places if they’d help me in terms of incentivising participation in this year’s ride, and, much to my delight, as of this morning, they both confirmed that they would. That’s one less thing to worry about. It was also good to get moving on the cycling front myself. I thought it’d be nice to work in a bit of cross-training, as it was such a beautiful day, and had a reasonably testing twenty-miler planned for my first ride of the season. It was really good fun, actually, even though the trail was pretty crowded with fair-weather walkers, runners, and riders. However, unlike the YMCA, even though it was pretty crowded on ‘my’ trail (the presumption of it, I tell you), there was still plenty of room to roam — and, more importantly, plenty of room for a quiet mind, at least once I left the madding crowd well behind. Although storms are forecast all-day tomorrow, I’m hoping hit the trail for another six-mile run. I need to run at least one more this week to stay on schedule. It must be done.

And that was the day that was. No doubt it was fairly prosaic, at least by exciting persons’ standards, but I’ll very much take what I can get these days. (Besides, simply being able to work out with any sort of regularity again pleases me to no end.) I’m just hoping to continue apace for what remains of the academic year. Come summertime, I’m hoping for better still.

Spring break

I’m officially on spring break. (And there was much rejoicing.)

I decided, as it was raining for most of the day, anyway, that I ought to take advantage of the general dreich and dreariness and start and finish my marking all in one go. I reckoned that, if I did, when I wake up in the morning, the rest of spring break would be set out before me like a playing field of delight. (It’s also a most appropriate metaphor, curiously enough, considering that tomorrow also marks my U10 girls team’s first soccer practice of the spring season.) It took some doing, but I ploughed my way through in just enough time to wend my way home shortly before eleven. (I might have been home a wee bit earlier, but I decided to gather up some books so that I can start reading them straight away. No rest for the weary and all that.) It wasn’t a bad or a long term by any means, but, all the same, I’m awfully glad it’s over — and that I can now look forward to the spring.

Somewhat surprisingly, I’m not feeling particularly knackered tonight. A fair few students stopped by to chat throughout the day, which broke things up rather nicely. Also, the marking itself wasn’t too terribly taxing. It’s always far easier for me to reread papers that have been revised — or that I’ve spent a good deal of time consulting with them about. That way, I can almost enjoy reading what they’ve done to improve upon them, without worrying about what manner of droll commentary my hieroglyphic marginalia might prompt. (They never get old, those comments. Ironically enough, I think my handwriting’s rather improved this term. Then again, the student who told me so has been so long accustomed to it — and to me and my eccentricities — that perhaps she’s simply being polite.) In any event, time and paper-marking positively flew by, at least in a manner of speaking.

And now I can focus on everything else. Hurrah for spring!

There and back again

It’s been a week without blogging, give or take.

I was hoping to have written sooner, but the last week of term can be like that. In the end, it came down to what I was able to best fit in during whatever ‘free time‘ remained to me: running or blogging. And, after not being able to run for some time last (and early this) year, I simply had to continue with my running. I even managed to increase my distance from three-and-a-half to five miles during the course of the week. I’m hoping to knock out a good six-miler or two by week’s end. That way, I shouldn’t be too far off course for the marathon I’m planning to run sometime this fall. (I haven’t decided on which one I’ll choose. That’ll depend on when I’ll feel comfortable enough with my fitness level. Half marathons, my preferred distance, can be ‘gutted out’, more or less; marathons, however, are a far more serious undertaking. My mind’s made up on the matter, though, so that alone must be a good sign.) It’s been fifteen years since I last ran a marathon. That one was in London. It’s high time for another over here.

Today’s training, such as it was, went well enough. I played soccer for a couple of hours, and then, after spending three hours in the office so that any last-minute students might be able to see me, hit the trail with a friend for a nice five-mile walk. (I almost never go walking with intent, so it was something new for me.) And then, after some quality (and ostensibly healthy) grocery shopping, I went home. It made for a pretty good day. What’s more, now that my larder’s sufficiently stocked, I believe I’ll try to replicate my ‘Iron Chef: Battle Risotto’ performance of a couple of weeks ago early this week. (It helped that I realised that I didn’t have to buy fresh asparagus by the pound. I didn’t quite know what to do with it all the last time around. Thank goodness I also managed to find pancetta. It’s just not the same without it — and, if I learned anything from years of watching Iron Chef, it’s that good and proper ingredients are everything when the time comes to do battle in Kitchen Stadium.) It’s good to be back again.

Widdershins

It looks to be a rather contrariwise sort of week, so tonight’s title sprang to mind, almost like the plumed serpent that features in two of the more modern references. For more detail (and the adverb), you might want to consult the OED. (Somewhat perversely, I prefer the Germanic spelling to that of the Scots dialect.) For the more archaic adjective, here’s the most common meaning: †1. In a direction opposite to the usual; the wrong way; to stand or start withershins, (of the hair) to ‘stand on end’. Obs. 

Let us hope that neither variant applies to tonight’s stack of papers. (I’m thinking not, but one never can tell.) Although some late papers and revisions have seemingly found their way into the stack, most of the papers are responses to Don DeLillo‘s White Noise. Appropriately enough, all their responses concern fear. (Very droll, I thought.) So I’m afraid that this must be an abridged post. I’d very much like to fit in a run tomorrow, and have already promised to put in an early appearance at the office.

The illustration is one of the more memorable from G. Willow Wilson‘s graphic novel series, Air. It’s well worth a look. Among the many archaic references is Mesoamerica‘s own plumed serpent, Quetzalcoatl. You cannot ask for more from a mythological serpent, I’ll tell you that for certain. Mind you, my favourite reference to a plume (white) comes from Edmond Rostand‘s Cyrano de Bergerac. If the translation in my battered paperback holds true, ‘plume’ is the play’s last word — and most fitting ending.

Well played

‘Well met’ might have rather more of a ‘Sandman’ feel to it, but ‘Well played’ also suits me down to the ground this weekend.

Tomorrow marks week ten of ten, and, after two or so weeks of comparable roughness, last week and the run-in to this week have gone surprisingly well. (Touch wood.) I think that going running far more regularly has something to do with it, as do a fair few particularly good ‘sporting’ results.

First off, I’d like to thank Pavel Pogrebnyak for his mid-afternoon hat-trick for Fulham FC. It hasn’t been to often this fantasy season that I’ve been inspired enough to choose the ‘correct’ captain for my starting XI, but, even by my usual idiosyncratic standards, selecting and captaining a player that only .2 percent of fantasy EPL managers even had in their teams, was decidedly eccentric to say the least. (Suffice to say, I was ‘sporting’ enough to phone each of my friends to have them revel in my managerial glory. Also, suffice to say, no one answered. It’s a hard-knock life, that of a fantasy EPL manager, I tell you.) Perhaps more importantly, Fulham are now 8th in the league table, their highest rank for quite some time. Now that I think on it, that result was almost enough to take the edge off Celtic’s draw with Aberdeen yesterday afternoon. Almost.

Then, this afternoon, after another bracing run (my third in as many days), I played (and won at) Canasta with one of my many favourite students. (We had a showdown in the Barnes & Noble cafe.) And while I believe I’ve figured out the ins and outs of game, I’m not so sure that I should be especially proud of myself, given that I cannot tally my score for each game without consulting a crib sheet – provided, of course, by my shellshocked student. (Like my Applied Probability colleagues, the thought of losing at cards to a person who cannot shuffle them properly is simply too much to bear.) Now there is the possibility that we got the score wrong: by her own admission, maths aren’t her strong suit, and I’ve only just learned the rules of the game. Perhaps I should call it a score-draw, and be satisfied with the ‘result’, whatever it might have been. In fact, I believe I’ll do just that.

The last part of my weekend of sport occurred on Saturday evening, when the soccer club I help coach for organised a fundraiser  in support of the American Cancer Society — and in the name of my friend who passed almost a year ago now. In truth, I wasn’t particularly keen on going, as I’m a very private person when it comes to anything remotely resembling the grieving process. (Just one more reason to be grateful for pharmaceuticals, I suppose.) But I went, and am ever so glad I did. Most of the girls I coach turned out, and it was nice to see them madly dashing about after a long winter’s break. Also, I was sufficiently occupied in helping run some of the games that my time at the event fairly flew by, which came as no small relief to me. More importantly, though, a good deal of money was raised for a good cause — and I’ll grudgingly allow that it was nice to see folks there.

On that curmudgeonly positive note, I’ll head upstairs and to bed. It’s going to be a rather full week, so a good night’s rest is in order. Also, there’s the small matter of an early-morning run that needs tending to, so any more thought of good play and Mayan prophecies can wait for a while.