Halfway through the first semester
I finished my mid-terms in respectable fashion and came to two conclusions: one, I like my chosen field; and two, I am dropping poetry like it's hot. Which it isn't.
My poetry professor, she of the epic sensitivity fail, is sloppy, disorganized, passive-aggressive, and just a fucking disaster. I am quite meticulous about keeping up with my work, and I know a couple of the other students in the class who are also conscientious about their work, and we cannot figure out what she wants and when she wants it. She says she prefers electronic submissions, but doesn't offer any grades or feedback on work submitted electronically. Work submitted in hard copy fares no better, and she grumbles about it.
We are assigned a sestina. Or a pantoum. Or something else. If we feel like it. Does she want three poems or one? Oh, well, whatever we want to send in. Or else we can post it on her website message board for her feedback, which she has not provided since the beginning of the semester.
Our "workshop" sessions are excruciating because there is no structure and we average 1.5 poems per an hour and fifteen minutes of class. Oh, and did I mention that we had to buy 5 supplemental texts, only one of which we've used?
There is really something seriously wrong in the world when I completely hate a class about writing poetry. However, I have figured out if I ditch it, I can take Pilates and yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which is a much better use of my time.
I am enjoying audiology and speech disorders, and I have a completely enjoyable girl-crush on my psych professor. She is amazingly intelligent and passionate (oh, okay, and she's pretty and tall and has a cute Swedish accent.) I'm taking abnormal psychology of children and adolescents from her -- very interesting subject, considering I have my only little case study hanging around.
At the moment I'm writing a paper about childhood-onset OCD and the high rate of co-occurrence with autism spectrum disorders. Occasionally I shift my eyes over to the child who is busy taking all of his jeans and shorts out of the dresser to check the pockets for lint. Then I sigh and research faster.
My poetry professor, she of the epic sensitivity fail, is sloppy, disorganized, passive-aggressive, and just a fucking disaster. I am quite meticulous about keeping up with my work, and I know a couple of the other students in the class who are also conscientious about their work, and we cannot figure out what she wants and when she wants it. She says she prefers electronic submissions, but doesn't offer any grades or feedback on work submitted electronically. Work submitted in hard copy fares no better, and she grumbles about it.
We are assigned a sestina. Or a pantoum. Or something else. If we feel like it. Does she want three poems or one? Oh, well, whatever we want to send in. Or else we can post it on her website message board for her feedback, which she has not provided since the beginning of the semester.
Our "workshop" sessions are excruciating because there is no structure and we average 1.5 poems per an hour and fifteen minutes of class. Oh, and did I mention that we had to buy 5 supplemental texts, only one of which we've used?
There is really something seriously wrong in the world when I completely hate a class about writing poetry. However, I have figured out if I ditch it, I can take Pilates and yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which is a much better use of my time.
I am enjoying audiology and speech disorders, and I have a completely enjoyable girl-crush on my psych professor. She is amazingly intelligent and passionate (oh, okay, and she's pretty and tall and has a cute Swedish accent.) I'm taking abnormal psychology of children and adolescents from her -- very interesting subject, considering I have my only little case study hanging around.
At the moment I'm writing a paper about childhood-onset OCD and the high rate of co-occurrence with autism spectrum disorders. Occasionally I shift my eyes over to the child who is busy taking all of his jeans and shorts out of the dresser to check the pockets for lint. Then I sigh and research faster.