Saturday, December 22, 2007

Happy Holidays!

It's been a while since I've been able to post--the dog days of December, however, seem to have slipped by; and since Winter Solstice was last night, the days will begin getting longer. Finals are over, papers submitted, and recommendations written, students dispersed to various homes and domiciles--but I won't say anything about grading yet, since they aren't due until January 2nd, and that's work yet to be done. It's Christmas break, and for all of us, I'm sure, a welcome time.

In fact, the purpose of this post is to wish all of you who might read this English department blog a marvelous and fruitful Holiday season!

And what better to celebrate than to offer photos from our very own Wassail party, held on the day after classes were over!



First, the goodies arrayed on one of the tables, and below, our esteemed chair, Ginger, tempting us to partake--at the other table.


Terri and I are trying to get everyone into the spirit of the season. . . .


And while Emily, Matt and Chelsea seem to be responding,

Lou appears to be doing his best "Bah, Humbug" impression!



Ah, the milling crowds, presaging the crush of shoppers and revelers to come. . . .

And, finally, Steve, with me and Ginger--representing the new and the old. . . .



Have a great break, everyone, and we'll see you on January 14th! (or shortly thereafter?)


-Jay

Saturday, December 1, 2007

Sticks and Stones may Break my Bones, but Words?

"i aint seen no poems stop a .38
i aint seen no metaphors stop a tank"
- "Two Poems", Haki Madhubuti


Somewhere between reading poetry from the Black Arts Movement and Marx's Communist Manifesto, I have found myself perturbed by the question (yet again): "What do words DO?" It bothers me that as a student of literature I should ask so simplistic a question. I feel such a concern would more likely hail from the minds of the simplistic, the myopic, the avaricious capitalist. I, for more reasons than one, should know first-hand what words can do. Words have been at the root of many revolutions, political decisions and perspective transformations. Words hurt and heal, sting and soothe, yadayadayada. I know the effect of a brilliant writer who effortlessly moves a reader to tears or has one bursting into fits of laughter.

Still, outside of cliche answers like the aforementioned, of what real 'use' is reading the great words of those writers valourized by the canon? In an age decidedly and inadvertently affected by capitalism, what is the market value of literary words? Of all the pleasures I have experienced from studying literature, the one I most value is the ability to critically analyze people and, more often than not, predict behaviour. Now I don't need and economist or market analyst to tell me how understanding people can bring in big bucks. That's the point on which all successful advertising pivots: the understanding of people, what drives and satisfies them.

Francis Bacon in his essay "Of Studies" says "Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring; for ornament, is in discourse; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of business." The efficacy of literary works are oft limited to the provision of delight and the display of wit for wit's sake. How tangibly do literary words boast the 'ability' aspect? Bacon's statement implies the underlying assumption that mere words as entity are somewhat inactive; their ability is proven in the disposition of business. What good does reveling in similies and synecdoches do in and of themselves? Must we always apply the skills this reveling gives us in order for the words to have value? Since when did value need validation from the materialist? Perhaps delight and ornamental attributes are good enough. After all, money is sought only to satisfy human desires (whether it is making another smile, launching a bomb, wreaking unfounded havoc or inflicting pleasurable pain). It has no implicit value. If hyperbole and onomatopoeia cut right to the chase, great!

Monday, November 26, 2007

The Dog Days of December

Whew! here it is November 26th, and this is only the second post this month. Perhaps that's because these are the days of deep semester: when papers pile up on instructors' desks, and assignments accumulate on students' lap-tops. These are the days of deep semester, when classes begin to run their course, and the combination of Christmas Musak and final papers churn the mind to muck--the Dog Days of the semester, when December looms. I get up in darkness and lie down in darkness, a pale dawn and a too-sudden twilight book-ending the daylight of teaching. Thankfully, we had Thanksgiving recess, during which we try to push off the anxiety of studying, writing, grading a few days, at least.
Mine was marvelously magnificent; I was able to enjoy the days immensely. Perhaps the advantage of age is the cultivated ability to live easily despite the threat that I need the time to "catch up" over the break. Or maybe it's just successful denial. Who knows?
Anyway, I thought I'd ruminate a bit about our company on Thanksgiving, or rather (geneologists, beware! here comes a conundrum) my step-daughter's half-brother Adam. Yes, my step-daughter could visit with both her step-brother and her half-brother together on Thanksgiving night, and was delighted, as were we.
My point, though, is that Adam is an English Major from WashU (St. Louis), class of '06, who was regaling us with his professional stories. Yes, English Majors, there is hope! Having journeyed to D.C. and taking a grunt desk job at MSNBC (recommended by a college friend) answering phones and e-filing, he interviewed with them for a position as political correspondent and was one of eight hired for the current Primary campaign season. He credits not only his writing experience, but his taking an internship at a local St. Louis radio station, where he got acquainted with the skills of deadline writing and interviewing. (And his minor was Psychology, not Journalism!) He's having quite the time traveling between Iowa and New Hampshire, having been embedded with the Fred Thompson campaign, of all people. (The reason he could join us was because NBC was flying him from the mid-west to the north-east, and he had no place to go on the intervening day.) He's glad that Fred finally recognizes him--for six weeks Adam was apparently considered by the candidate an extremely loyal camp follower ("Good to see you again; what was the name?").
He likens the stump speech (as a kind of verbal essay) to stand-up comedy routines: the framework is the same, but there are slightly new or changed sentences to appeal to the particular demographics at a particular location; these are cycled into and out of the stump speech as needed. So what he's on the look-out for is the significantly altered sentence that may signal a change or revelation of policy: what did Fred say about Fox News yesterday? Here's a link to a DailyKos story that cites his column; here's another to MSNBC's FIRSTREAD, where his column appears (Scroll down; if you don't find him, search for Adam Aigner-Treworgy in the search window at the top right of the page).
So much for my inspirational story concerning my Thanksgiving; perhaps later I'll review the first two films I've seen in the theater for the last year. . . .
--Jay

Monday, November 5, 2007

Here We All Are. . . .

At the English Department retreat on Saturday, October 27th, Alden, Ginger's husband, snapped this group photo of all the full-time members of the department. In the front are Lisa Kasmer, Ginger Vaughan, and Betsy Huang. Left to right in back are Jay Elliott, Fern Johnson, SunHee Gertz, Meredith Neuman, Winston Napier, and Steve Levin.
We conducted some good business--lots of consensus, which one might say is rare in academia these days! In any case, maybe this will help you put faces to the names in the course catalogue. Cheers!

--Jay

Friday, October 26, 2007

Chowdahfest!

Yes, the Chowdahfest was a week ago, and I seem to be slipping into the habit of posting about an event a week after it occurs. Ech! some of my students might say I'm breaking my own records by letting as little as a week slip by; witness how "fast" I get papers back! In any case, this is a festive celebration that has become an English Department tradition for some years now: inviting English Major alums, in conjunction with Clark's Alumni-In-Residence event, to come by and talk to the current undergrads and grad students about "life after the English Major"; or, "How Lit-ter-chure Prepared Me for Life." For me, it's wonderfully satisfying, since usually at least one of them is an old advisee, and I get to keep in touch.

Our guests on Friday were (from left to right below) Heidi Gitelman '80, Betsy Hopkins '97, and Jennifer C. Smith '95. Betsy was my advisee this time, and she reminded me that I had cobbled together a double major for her in English and Theater Arts; the aging synapses controlling memory being what they are, my response was, "I did? I must have known then what I don't know now."


They all mentioned in various ways how the emphases on research, analysis and writing connected with the English major had given them invaluable experience in managing and assessing all kinds of diverse data--interactive television documentaries for Heidi; IT for Betsy; Education Programs Manager at Planned Parenthood of Rhode Island for Jennifer (and these are only the most recent manifestations of many career moves for each of them)--but in the question-and-answer session afterwards I suggested that they had foregrounded yet another facet of English study that I hadn't realized in previous Chowdahfests. Threaded through all their employment sagas was a celebration of a deep acquaintance and proven ability to work with narrative: the familiarity with narrative essential to an English major was common to each; their work was successful because they could tell stories and listen to them as well. Wildly various stories, true--from documentaries to IT programmatic narratives to organizational stories to qualify for grant funding--but stories nonetheless. Honest stories, with character and plot; not little fibs or grand confabulations (which seem to be the narratives du jour of our current national political scene), but narratives shaped by and shaping the parameters and direction of their work. Hey, I thought, that's a recommendation for the major I'll gladly support!


So the chowdah was good, the conversation was better, and I hope everyone who attended found something to take away--besides leftover cookies, that is.

--Jay

Monday, October 22, 2007

Blogs of Interest. . . .

For a couple of weeks now I've been meaning to post the links to two student blogs that I think show how Clarkies can take advantage of this medium. The first is Lana Petersson's from her semester abroad last spring in Mexico; she's back this year as a senior doing an Honors Thesis, which is a short novel based on some of the experiences she posted. In other words, her blogging is furnishing material for her fiction: neat trick, no? Many authors--virtually all those who have become media-savvy--create web sites for their published works, but an increasing number have been using their posts as "rough drafts" for their books (here's my friend and blog mentor Stephanie, for example)--mostly non-fiction, but some fiction as well. Writers like Lana find that this inverted process--from blog to book--bears tasty fruit.

The other blog is Susan Monroe's Sweet As; she graduated in '05, and chronicles her years since then in New Zealand and Antarctica, as well as this past summer in the Rockies. She's intrigued by travel writing, and the blog offers a tremendous opportunity to try out her descriptive capabilities as well as develop a traveling persona.

All you people who want to write: take a lesson from all three of these writers, and practice, practice, practice! A blog is an ideal place to do it!

--Jay

Update: I forgot to add that all three blogs have wealths of photos--displayed in various formats. That, says Stephanie, is one of the primary requirements for a successful blog.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Questions of Faith

Last Wednesday, the 10th, I delayed my drive home to attend the "spoken word chorus" called "Questions of Faith," part of the Difficult Dialogues program and organized and coordinated by the Department's Meredith Neuman. It was most impressive, and one of the best things about it was that the script was co-written, along with Meredith, by two of our senior English Majors: Ayaan Agane on the left, and Heather Cenedella on the right. Kudos to them!


The program consisted of four sections, with four Clark actors--Christopher Church, Lee Gaines, Kate Rafey, and Zo Tobi--performing a variety of voices and perspectives drawn from one-on-one interviews with Clark students talking about their "experiences with issues of faith and religion on campus" (Program Notes).
I thought the rhythms of the interwoven voices established a richness that was stunning. All beliefs, from fundamentalist to dogged atheist, counterpointed each other. In fact, one of the best features, to my mind, was a "fugue": the four voices spoke over, around and past each other citing different ceremonial practices and positions to weave a tapestry of sound, in which meaning was subservient to the punctuated sound itself. I knew people were speaking, but I could not understand any one of them alone within the rise and fall of musical speech. The effect was vertiginous, but movingly similar to what the "gift of tongues" must sound like. Marvelous experience; and I hear that the whole thing was videotaped as well. Double marvelous.
Thank you, Meredith. And Ayaan and Heather: quite the sense of verbal artitecture! Bravo!
--Jay

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Response to Zach's Response to Difference/Differance

ZB,

I just knew you would jump in in defence of Derrida. Haha! I saw merit in Derrida's argument for difference. I simply pointed out the complexity involved in conceptualizing and applying the same. I suggest that Derrida's argument seems to gloss over the politics often involved in ascribing difference whether on a micro/macro linguistic level or within larger varied cultures and communities. I argue for difference-- be not mistaken-- but just that centres and margins are not necessarily as arbitrary as the undertones of Derrida's argument imply. I still maintain that hegemonies and politics nuance what is centre and what is marginalized.

On the matter of your "slight rebuttal":-), I was not suggesting that sameness be privileged over difference. I know that difference defines all aspects of our existence, linguistic and otherwise. My reference to sameness was one highlighting pattern formation in learning. Learning is about making links, forming patterns as much as it is about making distinctions and finding the loopholes in those patterns. I did say that eventually it is difference which has baby grasp the concept. That what is different must validate itself to baby is not necessarily due to the dangers of grouping as you imply but to the dangers of assuming that what came first is the essential centre and what is being added is inferior 'other'. Indeed, grouping and homogenizing concepts whether in learning or identity formation is as you insinuate, sloppy and lazy thinking which, even for the lethargic, is not always practical.

The very processes of differentiation in involve pattern formation which invariably tap into some level of 'sameness' before difference...although I am not even sure whether chronology is essential to my original argument. Still, you rebut my argument by first agreeing upon the central text of interrogation- Derridian differance. That being established as one fundamental commonality between us (along with the linguistic and discursive tools of interpretation which we also share), you could then express (with your usual eloquence) the points of difference between our perspectives. I don't doubt that difference may indeed preexist verisimilitude...when it comes to perceiving and expressing this, the latter takes preeminence. How could I have seen your argument as different is we did not share a common ground from which to differ? Baby sees human beings before gender; teaching baby "mom" and "dad" is one way parents help create necessary difference in the world of the child.

All in all, I only implore us to consider agenda that may be at work (though not necessarily) in the complex world of differance. I reiterate that it is not simply a continuum of differences, there are centres and margins, invariably affected by specifically what is deemed 'centre' and margin and by whom.

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

The Failure of Theory/Philosophy

In response to the recent discussion on Derrida, "differance," and literary theory, I would like to bring up a point of serious contention for me, and that is the language within theory/philosophy. To start off, I would like to quote a favorite author of mine on the topic. His name is Terry Goodkind, and I'm sure some of you have heard of him (he writes fantasy mainly). I have changed some of the wording to make it a bit clearer on how I see this to be relevant.

"When you read about [theory or philosophy] it’s crucially important to keep in mind that those who try to make it so complex as to be impenetrable to the “lay mind” have a motive for clouding their views: those views won’t stand up to the light of reason...Some [theorists or philosophers] use big words [or abstract concepts] to try to make their beliefs sound scholarly and important or, worse, to hide the fact that their beliefs don’t make any sense. [One should not] ever allow such people to bully you with their attempts to make philosophy impossibly complex, or intimidate you into accepting what they say."

Bearing this in mind, why is it that some theorists or philosophers are quite clear and succinct in their explanation, where others fail so miserably? Derrida in my opinion is arguably one of the most confusing theorists to read, and yet so much of post-structuralist thought stems from his ideas of differance, and Saussure's signifier and signified. The purpose of language is to be understood and to communicate one's ideas. If your thesis isn't clear in a paper, or your professor does not understand what you are talking about, your grade suffers. If a politician stands up in a debate or conference, and, like Kerry, "bungles" a joke or a concept, serious negative response can, and likely will, follow. Where do theorists fit in with this? It seems to me that somehow they escape the necessity for clarity in writing. Why?

I think perhaps Goodkind may be on to something, when he suggests that theorists and philosophers can't make themselves clear and use complex concepts to hide what will not hold up. I don't know that it is necessarily true that a theorist would do this deliberately (at least I would hope not!), but I do think there is a reason behind this obfuscation. It may suggest that the theorist himself does not fully understand the concept he is supposed to be enlightened with! If he is not able to explain it clearly, what is the point in suggesting it at all? I would much rather have a theorist admit that it is difficult to explain such a concept, and then concede that the best way he can think of to explain it is by some example. Instead, you have some theorists/philosophers who continue on in their discussion as though it were the most clear and apparent thing in the world. This cavalier attitude allows the theorist/philosopher an "untouchable" status--if one does not understand the concept, then one must be unenlightened or unable to understand it--and almost puts the blame on the reader, instead of the writer, for failing to comprehend the theory.

"Well, that's all great and everything, Steve, but what are you suggesting?"
I'd say that the best way to continue exploring theory and criticism is to just go with what you understand, or the parts that we understand. If we are unable to grasp a concept purported by a theorist/philosopher, the blame is most honestly placed at the feet of the "expressor", not the reader. I think of it this way--if subscribers to a particular school have a hard time explaining a topic advocated by the founder, it probably wasn't that clear or well explained. We can only do our best, take what we can get from it, and then move on to the next bit. After all, if Derrida can take a concept from Saussure and use it in a way that makes it his own, we can do the same with what we do understand.

Monday, October 8, 2007

Response to Dania’s Blog: Libérairance and the Coincident Tyranny of “Versimiltude” and the Modern University Bookstore

Response to Dania’s Blog: Libérairance and the Coincident Tyranny of “Versimiltude” and the Modern University Bookstore

Great Blog, but I have to rebut as a fan of the man. There is a general caveat that I believe should be given with all post-structuralist and (dare I say it) post-post-structuralist thought: we need to keep in mind that différance, like any philosophical conceit, is merely a means (just as traditional dialectical thought was prior to the emergence of différance) of reaching an ends (perhaps a better understanding of the world around us). Lawyers need not agree with Socrates’ vision of “essence” to appropriate his basic argumentative tactic. However, it is also important to remember that through Derrida’s exploration of differential philosophy (as it was explored by previous metaphysicians like Freud, Nietzsche, Heidegger, and FFS Anaximander) we are given access to a verbal toolbox that allows us to view the very idea of a naturalized “core” to linguistic and social intercourse, by which deviant aesthetic and deviant practice is measured as non-approximate and therefore vitiated with its “otherness,” as something that is as contrived as all of the reality shows that emerged in the wake of CBS’s “Survivor.” Concepts of “otherness” didn’t exist (at least in such a vital and robust form as we know it now) in intellectual debate and practice prior to “Structure, Sign and Play,” where Derrida’s systematic deconstruction of the totalizing myths of western metaphysics allows us to begin questioning the idea of a preordained or axiomatic element that pervades, defines, and transcends linguistic and social structure by some divine right of selfsameness or sameness with divinity. This is not to discount prior theory as less than, but see it as something that is not as microscopic and replete in its exploration. Also, this is not to discount later constructionist theory as a concomitant phenomenon or even derivative mode that deserves less attention, but to see it in its modern, post-Derrida form –where it may use differential logic and deconstruction to undermine insidious thought— as a product at the skeletal level of the decenterization of western metaphysics.



Différance is (and here we go) a libérairance (conjunction of the French libérer – to free someone and the French word libraire – a bookseller), a term which I have just now invented and will use to define the simultaneous state being liberated from the mire of sameness and stodgy white, western thought, while at the same time being sold a clutch of really expensive literature theory books based on the same idea that was supposed to free us. Thus there are two reasons to embrace différance; it frees us to look at the world and celebrate difference (though we must navigate it with a modicum of social responsibility), and it keeps me/you/us in business as students of literary theory (though I/you/we must purchase cartloads of books to prove this).

But in all seriousness, let me preface the body of this response by saying that “sameness” grates against my ears, not only because sibilance has always bothered me (it is associated with the devil after all because it is the “same” sound that snakes make) but that conceptually we “know” it is pernicious in its de facto ramifications. Prejudice in all of its forms is based entirely on the concept of verisimilitude, for without a clear cut (although shifting to suit the needs of the present) notion of what we should look for, we would not know what to rail against. I understand that part of this is difference, but what Derrida allows us to do is not deconstruct the difference between the center and structure, but deconstruct the underlying notion that everything is different, but the center. Prejudice, the painful part of noticing differences, can only exist if you undermine the operating concept of essential difference between two individuals by claiming the unity of their respective groups. By destabilizing this center, the one part that exists apart from difference by pointing out its différance, we can make moves toward what we see as ethical progress.

So to continue, “we” are not all the “same.” Take a ride on the subway, or visit the supermarket to see that. Physiologically I may have much in common with most people, but at the same rate I am only 1.4 percent less similar to a chimpanzee than I am to my neighbor—some of you might argue that I am closer to the chimp but we’ll leave that to next week’s blog, which is tentatively titled “A Graduate English department Referendum on Zach, or The Search for the Missing Link at Clark University.” So given the 0.1 percent divergent DNA in each person, and given the general propensity of two people to never agree about which song or station the radio should be tuned to, I can say that we are all “others.” Case in point, I am not even the same as the “other” privileged western, white, middle class fellow who lives next door. I am better looking, smarter, I know I am a better cook, I have an acumen for interior decoration that he does not have, and my football team is far superior (I happen to believe there may be a Raiders fan housed in the next building, unless of course has very poor fashion taste, in which case I also have a better sense of fashion). And in that notion, I loathe the fact that my appearance and mannerism could be used to describe a totalizing aesthetic that posits me as the reference point to which other cultures are differentiated and described. However, part of this (allow the center to exist free from critique, to exist as a naturalized object) is praxis of exclusion made possible by metaphysical notions of the sameness between me and the other people that share common traits.

We are talking about an unjustly time-honored tradition of collecting, categorizing and then collating individuals based (yes in part on difference but) on the “sameness” between the central tradition, its players and its myths, through which difference between the exterior, alien or “other” tradition is engaged and used as a mirror of non-equivalence. That mirror is a picture frame within which exists only a totalized fiction, and aesthetic used to ascribe virtue, and define deceit on its most basic (read intrinsic core of person as virtue or vice) and eventually its extrapolated apparition (intelligent, brave, devoted, fill in the blank with other good civil virtues) while leaving scraps (like secondary virtues that berth from stereotypical image of the “other,” and which always function as a group of marginal talents unnecessary to succeed in the western hemisphere) to the world that exists apart geographically, linguistically, and aesthetically. Hitler asked for verisimilitude, so doesn’t Plato in the “Republic.” We all know what that means.

Moreover, I would argue while “alterity” can be painful, it isn’t necessarily so (at least I would hope not), I know that concepts of verisimilitude are painful (square hole round peg) to all who do not fit the basic criterion. Through verisimilitude I could be linked to Jerry Falwell, George Bush, the Backstreet Boys, and the inventors of fast-food, parachute pants, and the automated telephone answering system. This would be unfair. I certainly celebrate my difference with these characters.

But I love difference and différance. While part of this is rooted in my general self-loathing, the other part is rooted in the idea that realizing and getting over differences has always been a source of serendipity and growth in my life. Without realizing what makes other people unique, I cannot realize what makes me unique. If I look only for sameness, I cannot appreciate life-experience that emerges from without, from “other” people I meet, who exist on the periphery of my personal traditions. If I viewed myself as the undisputed center, and then sought out people that met these criteria I would be a very bored fellow. I would also suggest, that at the philosophical level getting over différance, realizing it is merely a concept for destabilizing untruth rather than a reductive force dissolving language and meaning (and thereby liquidating ethics and morals) into a shapeless and ineffectual liqueur in the crucible of social thought.

On another level entirely, différance keeps me in business, for using the concepts of différance in an essay can account for several pages of literal and figurative word wrangling. It also provides a great center of debate whereby (hopefully) the English departments of the future can continue to feed, and I hope to be there working toward tenure.

And now on to a slight rebuttal. Stating that people learn through sameness is (if we deconstruct the notion) the same as saying people learn through difference. Although baby may need to validate difference through sameness, this is only because of the accumulation of knowledge, and the general need to group, which as I outlined can be very dangerous. Needing to “validate” difference is in and of itself and act of pre-judging an object against a ready defined aesthetic or idea. Thankfully I don’t think this is a necessary or even natural mode of thought, but just a convenient mode of thought. Indeed, while it is easy to move through life grouping like concepts, to accurately tease meaning from something we need to analyze or “To take to pieces; to separate, distinguish, or ascertain the elements of anything complex.” Additionally, it is instincit of the highest order seek difference in difficulty. Just touching on Freud’s notion of “splitting” bears this out. That which is difficult (I would argue impossible) to comprehend in false unity is necessarily divided into constituent elements. Splitting is not an easy process, for the act of distinguishing is more difficult because it requires attention to elements of an object which are unique and not identifiable within the other. It is a last ditch effort to learn something about a concept that is irreducible. To push this idea I will show several more primordial (if you will allow me to misapprehend the roots, and substitute the real Latin meaning of “first thing” with a logic that would assume it can also mean “something that predates order”) acts of learning that involve difference, thus showing how difference preexists verisimilitude.

Part of identity formation is difference, and this is good. If children naturally assumed that everything they see is the "exact" same as themselves—that is learning in the first instance through sameness— they would lead a long and confusing life, but I believe that baby’s initial assumption is that they are different. That is to say, the very first sensory acts involve the recognition that there is [an]other world out there, that is not the self. The eyes open, the ears hurt, the worlds floods in to baby’s life, and hopefully baby cries in a first attempt to communicate with a world that is now necessarily outside and different from baby. Thus, existence itself is an act of differentiating.

If we extend this idea, the first words from baby’s mouth will typically be “Mom” or “Dad.” It is arguably one the first of many chaotic differences a baby encounters, but it is healthy and natural. In that utterance we see inscribed a recognition that binaries and differences do exist on some level (at least if you are not an amoeba), and that part of life is getting over the idea that the other gender has cooties. To continue, the idea of “Mom and Dad,” shares a conjunction, which implies that despite their difference they found a way to get together and bring a new life into the world. In most cases I think this is a good thing, and at the most optimistic it starts life off on the right foot.

Any knowledge acquisition that involves ordering of things based on similarities is not primordial. Order only exists within an order that was itself “constructed” by baby, sometimes through the assistance of others, and thus this order is artificial, and when conceptual clarity is needed the natural mode would be to revert to the first means of acquisition which the search for difference. Verisimilitude (prefect unity) exists outside nature, where even on the atomic level things move in binaries, or at least in moments of difference between things that push beyond binaries, procreative acts (existence as a species) rely on recognition of the differences between the sexes, and the longevity of a species is threatened by a lack of genetic variation.
Now we revisit the brief preface of my little narrative here where I mention that that deconstructive thought should be used responsibly and viewed positively. We can view the definition by difference negatively, where it is merely a means of creating an irreducible concept of language and philosophy, or we can see it as a constructive mode of thought where the individual can be realized. We can choose to look at the parents as a normative model of heterosexual social relation, or we can look at it as the decisive moment where baby learns that differences can be overcome, people can work together to create and people that are the different at the most fundamental level can do some wonderful things when they work together. Moreover, even though Freud would say that through differentiation that baby will eventually form his/her concept of self by identifying with the parent of same gender and contrasting with the parent of differing gender, I like to think of it as cardinal moment where the baby can realize that no two things are the same and that life is full of different ways of forging oneself into an individual. There are no roadmaps, just infinite options.

Lastly, as far as différance the term, part of différance is about change from the previous tradition. So in that notion I added it to my Microsoft Word ™ dictionary, and now spell check will even pick it up if I miss the accent aigu. Whoops, I just had to add aigu. I wonder if French grammar exists. :-) So perhaps there is a lesson here about center and alterity? Word ™ is the center, it is marketed first and best for the English speaking world, and the only francophone terms available for verification (that is to say, we now know they operate outside of our circuit) would be terms that have been previously anglicized or have at the very least found their way into the popular lexicon as idiom or descriptor. Yes, I think it is hegemonic exclusion, for my dictionary readily accepts ‘apologia’ and ‘Cartesian’ among other key terms; so, perhaps there is some exclusion happening here. And on that note, I need to contact that OED so that they can stop discriminating against my term libérairance, and put its true meaning into action by including it in their wonderful book. While they are at it, they could practice its concept by including a comprehensive integrated thesaurus so we can follow chains of signification through synonymic and antonymic function, add a pejorative definition for “sameness” and all related terms, and then drop the retail price of the dictionary to the cost of the material and labor only thus signifying the closure of the practice of making graduate students and undergrads alike pay exorbitant fees for trifles of paper and thought.

Friday, October 5, 2007

Derrida's Differance with a Difference

Dania has kindly accepted my invitation to post one of her journals for Contemporary Literary Theory. It should be fun for you guys trying to make sense of the mad, mad, mad, mad world of deconstruction, and I'd like to see others post some of their reactions through the comments. As the blog begins to proliferate through the English Department, I'll be sending "invitations" to others to post as authors. Cheerio!
--Thanks, Dania!

-- Jay

So Derrida, since this is a blog, I am allowed to take you personally and express my discomfort with your brilliant theory of differance which, by the way, my computer keeps changing to ‘difference’. And why would it change it to difference over and over again when it is you of whom we speak, and therefore 'differance' should be accepted? Well, because as you have pointed out, spellcheck does not see differance’s closeness to ‘difference’ but its difference from it. Spellcheck uses the English word ‘difference’ as its reference point, and although (if I am to follow your logic) the standard term is itself fleeting and different from something else, it is, for Microsoft Spellcheck and in this moment that I now use it, the paragon of rightness. Is ‘difference’ still only defined by its difference from ‘differance’? Politics of English dictate otherwise. It dictates that for specific times, purposes and majors (such as mine) one is incorrect and another acceptable, and therein rests the core of my discomfort.

You see Derrida, if we lived in a fair apolitical world, your theory may have been more credible to me. But when you define sameness as difference, alterity as otherness, you begin to lose me. All things being equal, all signs could possibly just be defined by their difference from other signs; that does seem a fair way to level all. However, some things (and I am [maybe fallaciously] extrapolating here) are singled out, ridiculed, and discriminated against for their difference. Difference is not something that is naturally desirable in many contexts, especially when difference could mean discrimination or even death. When difference means otherness, the implications can be horrific, though not always and in varying degrees.
All kinds of variables come into play here. You see, your theory runs the risk of pivoting on the axis of time and not relativity as you had hoped. When my baby sister is learning something new, she forms patterns with what she learnt before that may seem similar to what she is at present required to learn. That, to me, involves sameness before difference. But stay with me here, say it is the new concept’s difference that makes her eventually grasp it; I always have to explain why it is she should accept this new sign when it is so similar to an old one with which she is already familiar. If even momentarily, the new thing must to her validate itself, its difference. It does not naturally get the same respect that the known has already got. If all were implicitly defined by their difference before and despite all other features, why was your brilliantly coined ‘differance’ not readily accepted by my computer? ‘Difference’s’ difference from your ‘differance’ made it bear “the trace”of otherness (278). Your ‘Differance’s’ difference from the standard English ‘difference’ set yours apart as ‘other’ and [therefore] a sign to be shunned, or worse, converted into the ‘correct’. For what its worth, I know you meant 'differance'.

So maybe it is hegemony I should be blaming and not you then, Derrida. You think?

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Euclidean Determinations and Beguiling Irregularities

Watching the Red Sox game and its aftermath on Friday night, I was struck by the appropriateness of a couple of famous comments on the significance of baseball: Bart Giamatti's assertion that "It is designed to break your heart," and the longer, perhaps more apt (for this meditation) suggestion by John Updike that Fenway Park in particular, but, we can conclude, all baseball stadiums in general, offer a "compromise between Man's Euclidean determinations and Nature's beguiling irregularities. . . ." Alone of America's major sports, baseball combines the rigid order of the infield structure (90' between the bases, 60'6" from pitcher's mound to the rearward tip of home plate, which is exactly 17" in width) with random outfield distances, foul areas, and distances to the backstop. Such irregularities lead to inconsistencies, marked particularly by the saying in Fenway that "The Wall giveth and the Wall taketh away": a lazy pop fly that happens to arc 310' lands in the first row of the monster seats (cf: Bucky bleepin' Dent), while a crushed line shot that never gets above 50' high ricochets from the wall so quickly that it holds the hitter to a single. In any other park the home-run/easy-fly-out conditions would be reversed. And what's a foul ball out in one park is but a souvenir in another, giving the batter another pitch and possibly keeping a rally going.

But how is this Euclidean symmetrical/Nature asymmetrical combination designed to break your heart? Because, as Giamatti also says, it proceeds along deep rhythms of threes: three strikes, three outs, three times three innings; the only disruption is four, as in a walk. Its apparent symmetry leads us to believe in the possibility of predicting any given situation. For example: the Yankees lead the Orioles by three in the bottom of the ninth, with Mariano Rivera needing but three outs to keep the Yankees in the hunt for at least a tie with the Bosox for the Eastern Division Championship. Case closed. In fact, several of the Bosox regulars shower, dress and are headed home, knowing that they will have to wait until Saturday for the next opportunity to clinch. The Orioles, after all, are a team at the nadir of their season, having fallen into an inability to pitch, field or hit, particularly in the second half of the season against the Yankees. Yet, against the historically best closer in the major leagues, the Orioles load the bases; with two outs, a triple clears them and: tie game.

Go to the tenth, when the symmetry/asymmetry of baseball plays amazing tricks on our expectations. Jeter leads off with a double, is sacrificed to third. One out, lead run on third. The basic baseball strategy is to walk the bases loaded in order to provide force outs at all bases, which the Orioles do. Now any fly ball, base hit, error or other anomaly will score the lead run. Molina, the catcher, in the game only because Posada (having his best offensive season ever) has been rested, given the insurmountable Yankee lead. He fouls out to the first baseman (a ball that is in the stands in Fenway, merely the second out at Camden Yards), bringing up Giambi. Menacing, grimacing, the veritable image of brute force, he seems the very embodiment of Euclidean order and certainty. But he's jammed, and hits a little fly ball to left. No runs; the strategy has worked.
Now the bottom of the tenth: Redmond doubles with one out, takes third on a wild pitch. One out, winning run on third. The Yankees employ exactly the same strategy as was practiced on them, and walk the bases loaded. Kevin Millar is up: more symmetry. Millar, who with the Bosox in '04 was the Cowboy-Up guy; one of the most verbal members of a team that dismembered the Yankees with four straight in the ACLS after falling behind 3-0, a comeback unprecedented in playoff history, Millar, who eats up fastballs as greedily as Giambi. Wouldn't it be grand and fitting, say all the fans still waiting in Fenway, watching this distant game on the Jumbotron high above center field, wouldn't it be absolutely appropriate for Millar to drive in the run that clinches the title for his old team? Millar watches a change-up split the plate for called strike three, perhaps the most heinous sin for any batter: to keep the bat on his shoulder with the winning run on third and less than two out. A swinging strike: OK, you tried. But a Called Third Strike? Melvin Mora up, who has the longest tenure with the team of any present Oriole. Physically the antithesis of Giambi, but at bat under exactly the same conditions. With the infield playing back to gobble up any ground ball and find a force at any base, he bunts. Totally unexpected, totally asymmetrical: this play is against all sane baseball strategy. But because the third baseman is playing so deep, all he can do is dash in, pick up the ball in his bare hand, and walk dejected past the third base line towards the dugout. Game over, Bosox clinch, fans in Fenway, who have been waiting for over an hour, shriek with delight, champagne corks pop, madness descends.

So under identical conditions in the tenth inning, the clearly superior team and batter fail the demands of symmetry, while the down and dogged team and batter spectacularly succeed, with an anomalous phenomenon perfectly executed. Baseball leads us to expect symmetry, but in its closest moments, surprises us with a beguiling irregularity. If you were a Yankee fan, that broke your heart. If you were Red Sox fans, it filled the heart with mindless joy as celebratory as the fizzed champagne that the players showered on them. We wait for these beguiling irregularities, these asymmetries, and delight or despair in them. Is there symmetry now in the reversal of the 86 World Series, in that the Bosox have won the Eastern Division Championship where the Mets have collapsed in the National League East as catastrophically as the ground ball to Buckner? It depends on our loyalties. For Red Sox and Yankee fans, at least, summer will last a while longer. But beware, both, of hope congealing into expectation, for baseball is designed to break your hearts with its beguiling irregularities.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Over the Notch to Mt. Holyoke. . . .

Last Tuesday night I went with several other people to hear Susan Cheever talk at Mt. Holyoke College. The weather was perfect, the drive gracious and chatty, and Cheever was funny, open, and entertaining. Afterwards, I held up her book-signing line while we chatted a bit about her most recent book, American Bloomsbury. I only had a chance to glance at it, but it seems to be in the mode of popularization fiction--that is, biography in the hands of a novelist. In fact, you could call it a group biography, which Susan did: she was fascinated, she said, with the shifting and complex relationships surrounding the Transcendentalists of Concord--Emerson, Thoreau, Margaret Fuller, the Hawthornes, and particularly the elder Alcotts and their ungovernable brood, including, of course, Louisa May. It's just out in paperback last week, and I wonder if any of you have noticed it; it does sound like a fun background read (and Cheever is a pretty good researcher, so she knows the major critical approaches to the Transcendentalists).

It also reminds me of two fictions based on actual people (are historical figures featured in novels a la Doctorow becoming ever more popular?): Matthew Pearl's The Dante Club (which SunHee assigned to Capstone a few years back, and I had a keen time yakking about one day for that class), a novel that features Longfellow (who was translating The Divine Comedy just after the Civil War), James Russell Lowell, Oliver Wendel Holmes, James T. Fields, and a walk-on appearance by my old grad school favorite and meal ticket, William Dean Howells. It's a murder mystery, uncannily enough, that centers around a serial killer in the Boston area who frames his murders according to the various tortures inflicted on the unfortunate sinners in the Inferno. The other is more recent and even closer to home: Jed Rubenfeld's The Interpretation of Murder. Catch this: its protagonist is a young assistant professor of Psychology recently hired by G. Stanley Hall at Clark University, and whose task is to greet Freud and Jung at the docks in New York and escort them to Worcester for the famous conference. But a murder interrupts their journey. This novel is striking for its attempts to characterize a reluctant and somewhat haughty Freud who is but gingerly braving the wilds of the American continent--but who does solve the murder before he has to appear at Hall's university.

There's some bedside reading for you guys. Love those mysteries, no?

By the way, if those links work, woo-hoo! I learned something! If they don't, damn! back to the drawing board.

Finally, magic number = 2. That's a deuce, BH. One-sixth of a dozen. Half a quartet. (But I do have to congratulate you on making the Wild-card. Til we meet again. . . .)

Jay

Update 1: All well, so the MN is still two. C'est la vie. . . .

Monday, September 24, 2007

Re-posting from "comment" to topic

I'm reposting the comment I made and turning it into a thread so it's a little more visable.

Your post got me thinking about the impact our favorite writers have on our lives. I'd say that we've all come across novels that have made us feel a part of the action. Characters become a fully-realized person we've just met, and their stories reach out and speak to us.Sunday, a well-known author died and left behind a world, and a story, largely unfinished. Robert Jordan, the writer of the Wheel of Time series, finaly succumbed to a disease he had been battling for years.Although I have never met him, the news struck me down nonetheless. It's amazing how writers manage to capture a bit of themselves within their work, and that small piece can make us feel kinship with them.Jordan's goal was to create a 12 book series, but he has passed before the twelfth could be written. The news articles I've read suggested that he had the first and last chapter written, as well as the outline for the rest of the plot, and kept within a safe. But I doubt it will be the same. As selfish as it sounds, I wonder how satisfying a finale the next book can be. I am torn as a reader--do I soldier on and finish the series so I can discover how it ends, or do I put it aside, fearing disappointment since it cannot be written with the same caliber?

Monday, September 17, 2007

Back to Books


Junot Diaz's new novel, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, promises to be an incredible read. Diaz talked with Tom Ashbrook on ON POINT recently, and the interview is worth a listen. Here's a description of Diaz on Ashbrook's site:

Son of the Dominican Republic and New Jersey, Junot Diaz made a huge splash a decade ago with a tough, vivid collection of short stories on Latino ghetto life called "Drown." Now, Diaz is back with a debut novel that is knocking the socks off critics.

"The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" tracks one heart-torn family from surreally brutal dictatorship in Santo Domingo to a sexy, urban, sci-fi, Spanglish tragicomedy in the USA. Time magazine calls it "astoundingly great."

You can listen to the broadcast HERE.
- BH.

Is this the Clark baseball blog?

Sorry, Jay. Beckett had his day, and likely bagged the Cy Young, but ultimately it all ended well for us New Yawkers at Fenway. Great game last night, though I have no nails left.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

OK, and now a play. . . .

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Potluck Pix

Some photos from our department shindig:







And yes, Jay, the Bombers are creeping up, slowly but surely. They'll have the wild card at the very least.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Sunday Evening

Humph. Sunday night. Why do weekends fly by so fast? There I was, driving back after the marvelous Friday night pot-luck, thinking that this great swath of time was laid out at my feet, and now. . . . Speaking of which, Betsy has promised to post some of her photos of the soiree, so all of the grad students can see what they look like candidly. As well as the faculty. Anyway, I hope the left-over food found its way to deserving and discriminating palates. I also hope someone scammed with the rest of the parmesan cheese I brought; it's damn good stuff and will prime a pasta presentation in no time.

Elvis the cat seems to want to say hello: kl;;; Oh well, a feline of few words. He's more interested in the mouse.

Maybe I did get something done this weekend, though. MA theses, check. Seminars prepared, check (well, sort of--I did review some stuff). Dog walked, check. Daughter and son-in-law moved all their stuff from the basement, check (Woo-hoo!). RPI football game won, check (but Colin didn't play, boo). Red Sox won, check. Patriots steam-rolled the Jets, check (108-yard kickoff return? You're kidding me. NFL record. Hell, the longest return possible is 109 3/4 yards--the end zone is only 10 yards deep!). Yankees won, boo. It could very well be the Red Sox-Yankees in the ALCS once again. Not good for my heart rate.

If any of my honors and directed readings students come upon this entry, I have to apologize in advance if I've double-booked anyone. I'm promising myself that I will discover what Daily Planners are and try to abide by them.

Looking forward to another week--a busy one at that. I hope many of you can start conversations here and contribute to others. I'll leave you with my signature line for one of the "platform blogs" I'm a member of: "One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives"--Mark Twain. Seems to me to be an appropriate observation for these perilous political times.
Jay

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

OK, A Story. . . .

Urk. Thinking about a Red Sox sweep, particularly after a long day, with good meetings and a useful colloquium. But not so, with the bullpen giving it up in the 8th and the Stockings committing a giant squander in the bottom of the 7th. All the while the Bronx B's explode on the M's; ARod hits two dingers in one inning. Lead's now 6 games. And BH is creeping up behind me. . . .
By dint of requests, herewith is my 2004 umpiring story "In the Zone." Enjoy.


In the Zone

What I’m gonna tell you never should have happened. But it did. Baseball Digest says they never heard of it. My friend Johnny, they call him Double-Deuce, the old red-head, he was there. And he says that if you scrinch down and really peer between the teeny lines in the rule book—Section 3, Topic II, Rule 6, Sub-head 13, I think he said—you can see that there’s a wee little space in amongst all those “ifs” and “whens” and “whereas’s.” Yup, if you stare for a couple of minutes, he said, why, you can almost see it happen. The rules’ll let it happen. The paper’s didn’t know what to do with it, the local beat scribes were scratchin’ their noggins to beat all. Pioneer Regional wins the Western State High School Scholastic Varsity Baseball Championship and gets the number one seed in the state tournament play by hitting into a triple play! Impossible? That’s what Baseball Digest said.

I almost didn’t get to call that game, you know. Stan, he’s the commissioner of Umps for the Western State, he called Johnny right before and asked if I had enough experience to do it, such an important game and all. But Johnny, he stood right behind me. “Oh yeah,” he says to Stan. “I think he’s ready.” Didn’t know that, though, until after the game. Good thing, too. My confidence was shaky enough, I still have a lot to learn about this trade, even if it’s just my hobby.

See, this wasn’t supposed to be a real big game when Stan did the assignments at the beginning of the season. Pioneer was heavy favorites to take it all, and Smith Academy was nowhere on anybody’s radar. I think the local papers had ‘em picked for next to last or something. Pioneer had a returning crew that most of ‘em went to the State semis the year before, and a big kid, a senior, Matt, who could bring it with the best. If there’s anyone I’ve seen this year who’ll go pro, it’s Matt. But he’s got to decide between baseball and a football scholarship, ‘because he led Pioneer to the Division III Super Bowl in the fall. Recruiters camped out on his doorstep, the way I hear tell. But Smith put together a season like you’ve never seen—all teamwork, small ball, steals, bunts, scratch runs, make ‘em stand up with sneaky pitching and defense. Warmed your heart, those boys did, and they were the darlings of all the local scribes by the time they hit the championship. “Hoosiers II,” one of the headlines said, mixing up the sports a bit. They were the underdogs, you bet, and poor nervous Stan suddenly realizes he’s got the plate assigned to one of his newer guys and has to call Johnny to calm that cuisinart in his gut. But Stan told me after the game I did good, and I’ll probably do mostly varsity next year instead of mostly JV. After all, I’ve paid my dues.

I called Johnny too, the night before. I couldn’t hardly believe that the game was so big, and Stan had kept me on it, behind the plate, no less, but he simmered me right down. “You’re really improving out there,” he told me. “You look more relaxed, and you’ve got your timing down. Just stay within the play, don’t anticipate, go with your instincts, and watch the ball at all times!” I figured he’d bail me out if I got into big trouble—he’s the one got me into umpiring in the first place, and he’s always giving me little tips. Always teaching, Johnny is, been doing kids’ baseball and basketball for years, taking pitchers aside after the game and giving them instruction. See, he was in the New York Giants organization for a few years back before they moved west, but he didn’t ever have the heater to make the show. Crazy guy to watch working, too. Got these ways of calling pitches like I’ve never seen; he sorta leans out from behind the plate to the side like he’s uncurling, his right arm slowly comes up until it’s straight out and then, “Strike!” Calls a combined count, too. “Eleven,” he yells for one-and-one. “Twenty-one” for two-and-one. “Full house” for a full count. And of course “Double-Deuce” for two-and-two. That’s how he got his nickname, though I don’t know how many says it to him face-to-face. They all respect him too much.

At the Pioneer field he drove up just as I was starting to put on my gear. Sometimes, when I work with him he gifts me with about five or six boxes of crackers and such with the dates expired. He’s some kind of high-up regional manager for a local bakery company—so when I work with him I’m always heading home with something for the cupboard. Does it for all the guys he works with, I hear. Me, I’m just a working stiff—UPS delivery. But I like that he pushed me to get into umpiring. Gives me a chance to do something, make decisions that mean something. Otherwise the only decisions I can make is stepping on the brake or pushing the gas pedal. “Ho, ho, Mr. E,” he says—always calls me that, don’t know why—“fine day for the great American pastime, yes?”

I shook his hand and went on with my buckling and adjusting. “Yep,” I said. “Really great weather.” It was a perfect day, with that late spring New England sunshine that you want to rub up on your sleeve for safekeeping like a quarter you just picked up off the street. The field is pretty, too, tucked into a hollow between the road and the river, 325-foot fence all around the outfield, neat as a pin. Us Association guys always call it “Field of Dreams” because right up to the left-field fence is a strip of cornfield between it and the river, and in the summer, when the corn’s full grown, I always expect Shoeless Joe Jackson to come sauntering out of it. Groundskeepers’d done themselves proud, too, no grooves in the dirt skin between the bases, and the infield grass was new mowed to a little shorter than the outfield. Balls would skip true on this field. There wasn’t any dugouts, but the benches were nicely placed behind more fences up and down the baselines. I breathed in that mild air that seemed to echo with the green of the grass and the sharp, white baselines all the way down to the foul poles. There was more people already than I’d ever done a game in front of; they were laying blankets on the slope behind first base leading up to the road like it was a picnic. Photographers from the local rag in Northampton wandered here and there, snapping the local color.
We did the ground rules with the coaches and captains, Johnny jogged out to behind first base in his shambling trot, and we got down to business. I took a deep breath, pulled the mask down over my face, and felt that silent rush just before I yelled “Play ball!” and pointed to the pitcher.

Well, I tell you, I’ve never felt a game like that one. Johnny and me worked perfect, all our calls were right. One time there was a foul tip on a third strike, and it looked to me like the catcher had juggled it, so I immediately pointed out to Johnny behind first base and yelled, “Blue! Did he catch it!” Johnny paused a beat, then uncurled his right arm upwards like he was about to shake his fist at me. “Out!” he said. “Good call, blue!” the pitcher blurted, and looked in at his catcher for the sign as the next batter approached. Yeah, we were invisible. No grouching, no complaints, no controversial calls—they accepted what we gave and the game moved right along without any hitch at all. My strike zone was real consistent, if I do say so myself, and I was in the right position for every call. The papers had a picture the next day of a call I made at home—real close, and the caption read, “Safe or Out?” ‘cuz you couldn’t tell from the picture. But in the background, perfectly placed to see the tag, is me from the waist down, in a slight crouch. Wait a beat, find the ball in the catcher’s mitt, and “Got him!” I yelled, pumping my right fist down as I held my mask in my left. I thought I’d catch some flak on that one, but the base runner just got to his feet, grimaced, banged his hand on his thigh, and walked back to the bench.

I found that I was moving inside the game, the decisions just seemed to flow from me as natural as that river does behind left field. I even called every foul ball back in play, something I usually forget to do at least once a game. I was in a “zone,” as they say, and the only time I’d felt like that was in basketball way back in high school when I just knew everything I tossed up was goin’ in. No doubts, no second-guessing, just everything felt right. The kids had something to do with that, too, I mean big Matt was bringing it in with power and a little twist at the last minute that’d catch the corner or blow the batter away. And the little lefty from Smith? Changin’ speeds all the time, but always around the plate. Pioneer couldn’t quite figure him out ‘cuz he was always a step ahead of ‘em. And to me, those corners looked big that day—a little outside, and I’d stand: “Ball!” But zip across the corner, my right arm would fly out: “Stri-i-i-i-ke!” I make sure they heard it. Both pitchers keep nodding slightly, as if they was saying, yeah, just missed that one, or, OK! Got it then.
So it gets to the bottom of the seventh, 1-1. Matt’s got a one-hitter, that’s the Smith second baseman leading off the fourth. Even when Johnny’d called “Safe!” on that bang-bang play, nobody’d complained. It was a slow bouncer along the third-base line, and I noticed the third baseman looked in his glove after the call like he was thinking, man, if I’d only gotten it out a fraction sooner, I’d have got him. The kid promptly steals second. Man, is he quick! Then he advances on a ground ball to the right side and scores on a medium fly. That was an easy call—he did a fade slide around the Pioneer catcher and was by the plate just as the ball was caught. And Pioneer, they couldn’t seem to string three hits together except once—seems like they had men on base almost every inning, but Smith’s fielding—boy, were they smooth!

Anyway, bottom of the seventh, and the Smith lefty’s getting tired, I can tell. He’s reaching down, but he’s missing the outside corner a little more, and he doesn’t have quite as much speed to contrast with his slower stuff. Pioneer’s lead-off hitter works a walk, and the next batter crashes an inside curve down the third-base line. Neat bit of hitting. Second and third, no outs. Nothing to do but walk the next guy and set up a force at home. The folks are yelling, both benches are hanging on the fences, everyone’s standing. The Smith coach brings in a new pitcher, big kid, throws hard, and the Smith fans go berserk cheering the lefty as he leaves—he deserves it, he’s shown a lot of stuff out there. As I stand a little up the first base line watching the warm-ups with my mask under my arm, I hear a voice from behind the plate—a scribe, most likely—say into a sudden quiet pause: “With their run of luck this year, Smith’ll get a triple play.”

Well, that’s exactly what they do. For the first time all game, a Pioneer batter looks a little confused. He swings at the first pitch, hits it down by the hands, and nubs a soft little hump-backed liner out between first base and the pitcher. The first baseman—a rangy kid—dives toward the pitcher and snares it—if he’d been right-handed and if the grass had been a quarter of an inch higher, he’d never of snatched it, so close to bouncing it was. Johnny yells “Out!”—no beat this time. The runners on first and second—too anxious, I guess, or maybe it was a hit-and-run—take off with the crack of the bat, but the runner on third hangs on. I still don’t know if he did it because he was confused or missed a sign or because he had great baseball smarts or what, but I see him hang on to third. I’m standing off in foul territory beside the plate on the first-base side, and I see him break for the plate as the first baseman, realizing he has the runner caught, rolls over, gets up, and dashes for the first-base bag. Seeing that, the runner on third breaks for the plate. So when the first baseman tags first and Johnny yells “Out!” again, the kid on third is churning home. Meantime, the runner on second misreads the third-base coach’s gesture—he’s yelling “Back! Back!” trying to push him back to second and the kid thinks he means slide, and, hell, nobody can hear anything because there’s so much noise all at once. Then he realizes he’s got to get back to second, puts on the brakes and steams back with a head-first slide. The first baseman turns around after tagging the bag for the second out, and the shortstop, covering second, is screaming for the ball. That gets first’s attention, I don’t think he sees the runner coming home, or he’s suddenly thinking “triple play,” so instead of firing to the plate, he guns it to second. But just before the ball gets to the shortstop for the third out, the runner from third crosses the plate right in front of me. Johnny calls “Out!” for the third time, and the Smith fans go nuts.

“I told ya! I told ya!” the voice keeps yelling from behind the backstop, but I start walking toward Johnny, who’s just behind the pitcher’s mound, shaking his head with a funny little half smile.

“Johnny,” I say. “It’s over. Run’s scored. Timing play.” He looks at me, lifting his bushy red eyebrows, takes his hat off and runs his hand through his thinning hair. I explain the fact that the runner has tagged up, not left until after the catch, and crossed the plate before the third out. He looks at me for a moment longer, then his thin face splits into a wide grin. “You’re sure, Mr. E?” I nod, and he says, “One for the books. Let’s go lay the news on ‘em.”

You’d think the Smith team had won, the way they were slapping each other on the back and carrying on. The Pioneers kids were like sleepwalkers trudging out to their positions. Oh, yeah, momentum had really swung to the underdogs. I called both coaches over behind the plate and explained the rule to them and what it meant. Pioneer had won—like they were supposed to, but not in a way that did them proud. Both coaches stared at me with open mouths. The fans on the hillside and behind the backstop were quiet now, knowing something was up. And when both coaches went back to their benches to explain the play to their teams, I announced it on the PA system. A weak little cheer went up from the Pioneer folks, but they seemed too stunned to acknowledge their good luck. It seemed like everyone—Pioneer and Smith folks alike—were shaking their heads.

So that’s how it ended for Smith Academy. And for Pioneer, they never seemed to get it together after that and lost their first game in the State Tourney to a number 8 seed. But it’s not over for me. I’ll never forget that feeling of being in a “zone” where every call, every decision, especially the last one, was right. It’s like I was caught up in something bigger than me, bigger than the teams or the game, some big force. I wasn’t me during that game. I was hardly even aware of me. I’m not that decisive or that right all the time, believe me. Something was using me to teach something else to the kids, to the coaches, the scribes and all the folks at that game—humility maybe.

When I said this to Johnny later, he looked at me for a minute. “You know our Association meetings?” he asked. “You know how Big Freddy and Sam and a few others are always talking about games with ‘I called this’ and ‘I said that to the stupid coach’ and ‘this was the ruling I made?’” I nodded. “Those are the guys doing this in their spare time for their egos. They think they’re really big time and are in control of the game. They want to be the center of attention or recapture some athletic youth they’ve lost. But the really good ones, like Dave and Wayne and Richie—you never hear them talk like that. Everyone has good, clear mechanics—else they wouldn’t be allowed to stay; but the good ones feel what you just said. They know that they don’t really matter; if the game is really fitting together, something else is controlling it—chance, or providence, perhaps. It’s being totally absorbed into the flow of the moment.” He gave a little grin. “I call it joy. That’s the ‘zone’ you’re talking about. Sometimes—rarely, but sometimes—if you’re really on you can catch that zone—you can’t ever create it, it just happens, it’s like a gift that you’ve got to be ready for—and then all the rest of it—the arguments, the missed calls, the mistakes of other games—are worth it.” He stared over my shoulder. “It’s like so many things,” he mused. “We do our best work when we get out of our own way.” He looked at me again. “You’ll be a good one, Mr. E. Keep doin’ games, as many as you can, and you’ll get better and better. Maybe you’ll find that zone again.”

--Jay

Copyright The Elysian Fields Quarterly, 2004

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

Loomings

Since it is the day after Labor Day, there's a hint of coolness in the air (though extended weather report says hot and humid by the end of the week), and, most importantly, the University has re-opened its doors to another fall semester, it's time to begin the Clark English Blog.

Although, if you check my interview on the English Department web site, I have been dipping into various blogs over the last 18 months to get a sense of the narrative features of these phenomena, it's clear that the best way of researching is doing: and so I'm starting in. Here's my thinking:

This blog is basically belongs to the English Department, and although I will be the chief poster, I invite everyone and any0ne to contribute. As soon as I figure out and explore some of the useful features of this technology, I'll try them out periodically in order to increase the traffic.

I'd like to see as much commentary as possible: within and without the English Department , its graduate students, its majors and minors, as well as faculty and staff. The subjects are open: whatever concerns, personal and/or academic, might move one to comment. I see this as the opening for a community, a gathering place for opinion and observation, centered around Clark people, curricula and events--though mention of the Red Sox might creep onto the screen. . . .

This blog does not serve the same purpose as Blackboard, though perhaps some of the same general concerns may be posted--just not class readings and assignments.

Finally, I hope this blog will offer some insight into the informal workings of the Clark English Department for all those prospective students who might consider attending this university. Certainly you too can ask questions and get a flavor of our conversation.

This post, then, is the opening and welcoming salvo: welcome back to Clark students and faculty; and welcome to all those first-years who are just now making the transition to the intimidating but ultimately fascinating world of college.

Jay