Listen
I am so smart.
I don't know what this kid is talking about, but somehow I managed to edit his findings on nanografting. Methinks the poor boy is not from this country... I do have a few questions about what he means here and there, but other than that I think I knows the mojos.
I am almost done with Book the Twelfth in ASoUE. I read this instead of Foucault. I read Foucault, too, but I read Lemony Snicket more.
I try to like Foucault, I try to understand Foucault - but I do not make the snappy in-class comments. Instead, it is the guy with the iPood t-shirt (its emblazoned with a white silhouette of a man hunched over like the thinker on the loo). He makes the snappy in-class comments. And that boy with the voice. His voice fills me with rage. It is 1) too loud 2) too annoying. I must also say that it is very hard to annoy Becca Lee. How does he do it?
!
Still, I muddle through Foucault because Theory (capital T) is a necessary sludgepile for me to muck through before I get to the Master's program. So far, it has been Foucault saying things I recognize (we all generally recognize) as social phenomena. He gives them new words and strings those new words in opaque sentences that have me scratching and hitting my poor head.
I realized today why I do not want to get an MFA at BYU. It would not be rigorous enough for me to legitimately call it a degree.
How snooty is that?
!
Also, I received a wedding announcement from Tim and Jessie today. Their announcement is so earthy. And it didn't come with various non-recyclable slips of tracing paper. Way to go green!
So here is a poem by Louise Glück. From God.
Listen
My great happiness
is the sound your voice makes
calling to me even in despair; my sorrow
that I cannot answer you
in speech you accept as mine.
You have no faith in your own language.
So you invest
authority in signs
you cannot read with any accuracy.
And yet your voice reaches me always.
And I answer constantly,
my anger passing
as winter passes. My tenderness
should be apparent to you
in the breeze of summer evening
and in the words that become
your own response.
I don't know what this kid is talking about, but somehow I managed to edit his findings on nanografting. Methinks the poor boy is not from this country... I do have a few questions about what he means here and there, but other than that I think I knows the mojos.
I am almost done with Book the Twelfth in ASoUE. I read this instead of Foucault. I read Foucault, too, but I read Lemony Snicket more.
I try to like Foucault, I try to understand Foucault - but I do not make the snappy in-class comments. Instead, it is the guy with the iPood t-shirt (its emblazoned with a white silhouette of a man hunched over like the thinker on the loo). He makes the snappy in-class comments. And that boy with the voice. His voice fills me with rage. It is 1) too loud 2) too annoying. I must also say that it is very hard to annoy Becca Lee. How does he do it?
!
Still, I muddle through Foucault because Theory (capital T) is a necessary sludgepile for me to muck through before I get to the Master's program. So far, it has been Foucault saying things I recognize (we all generally recognize) as social phenomena. He gives them new words and strings those new words in opaque sentences that have me scratching and hitting my poor head.
I realized today why I do not want to get an MFA at BYU. It would not be rigorous enough for me to legitimately call it a degree.
How snooty is that?
!
Also, I received a wedding announcement from Tim and Jessie today. Their announcement is so earthy. And it didn't come with various non-recyclable slips of tracing paper. Way to go green!
So here is a poem by Louise Glück. From God.
Listen
My great happiness
is the sound your voice makes
calling to me even in despair; my sorrow
that I cannot answer you
in speech you accept as mine.
You have no faith in your own language.
So you invest
authority in signs
you cannot read with any accuracy.
And yet your voice reaches me always.
And I answer constantly,
my anger passing
as winter passes. My tenderness
should be apparent to you
in the breeze of summer evening
and in the words that become
your own response.