I came into NPR’s Fresh Air midway through the program today and was interested because they were talking about a dead female poet (I immediately hoped that it was SP) and an unpublished poem that the interviewee had copied while the poet was in the hospital and published without her express permission. Not knowing the name of the poet, I—perhaps unlike NPR’s reviewers—was able to listen without bias:

“Breakfast Song”

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I’ve grown accustomed to?
–Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it’s true.
It’s just the common case;
there’s nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

Now I ask: Is this a good poem? I tended to think not so much, although it is not without merit (the interviewer especially liked “ugly death / in that cold, filthy place”). But there’s something juvenile in the sing-song melody of “Today I love you so / how can I bear to go / (as soon I must, I know)” and “Nobody wants to die; / tell me it is a lie!”

What Professor Tratner (the book-burner) said about T.S. Eliot was that his poetry is so good because he takes really bad poetry (e.g. “Let us go then, you and I, / When the evening is spread out against the sky,” which could easily, predictably, and horribly conclude with something like “Like a big cherry pie”) and infuses it with weird, out-of-place, and unexpected language and images (the following line is, of course, “Like a patient etherised upon a table”). Eliot sets you up for something awful and then, defying your expectations, makes it interesting and strange. I had hoped that that’s what “Breakfast Song” was getting at, but I was let down.

In the course of the interview, it was revealed that the secret dead female poet was none other than Elizabeth Bishop (perhaps most known for “One Art”—”The art of losing isn’t hard to master”—which is a good poem). Bishop, who was a lesbian (the interviewer suggested that the poem was probably directed to a woman, completely ignoring the notion of a speaker whose purposes may differ from those of the poet’s), tended to shy away from personal inclusions of her life in her poetry, which could explain why this poem went unpublished. Perhaps her reason for not publishing overtly personal poems is that they weren’t very good.

I think that the NPR people were just too caught up in the excitement of a private Bishop poem and were willing to value it not for its poetic excellence but for its supposed insight into Bishop’s life and because, published 20 years after her death, it serves as the poet’s voice reaching from beyond the grave to lament the certainty of her death.

You wouldn’t have known that there were that many people there from where David and I stood in the thirdish row of the second class ticket-holder field. The first class people with the blue tickets got to crowd around the stage, or they even had room to move around and still see Obama. There were, at least, people worse off than we were—down the hill and across the street with no possible hope of seeing him.

So, I met David in line with some interesting Democrats Abroad Canada person around 4. He was brilliant enough to think to go get us the orange/salmon/pink/coral tickets that so many people in line were holding. It turned out, later, that those tickets were required for the line we were in. The doors opened faithfully around 6pm, and everyone poured into the barricaded field. There were pretzels and water bottles for sale as well as porta-potties; these became increasingly inaccessible as more and more people entered the field and crowded to the front.

For about two and a half hours, we sat on the ground on Clean Coal tee shirts that advocates had given out for free (even if I don’t support coal as a power source, they made nice mini-picnic blankets). There were some too-young-to-vote-aged children there, but not nearly as many as had come to the Bill Clinton rally at Bryn Mawr for the 2006 elections, so it didn’t feel like my spot was in jeopardy thanks to a bunch of kids who wouldn’t make a difference in the election anyway. We had also happened to befriend a lone man from New York, so the three of us were reading or playing video games on the ground.

At a little after 8, when someone around us had predicted the event would start, announcements began. Only a couple of people were announced before what would seem like endless music began. Even though Obama was not even at the event yet, everyone stood up and crowded forward. I left my empty water bottle on the ground, vowing to throw out at least two water bottles on my way out to make sure that I hadn’t contributed to the litter on the ground even though I wasn’t willing to hold the bottle for two more hours. We managed to push and be pushed forward to, as I said, about the third row of people. There just happened to be a bunch of people 5′9″ and taller in front of me who did not like to be cramped. (I really didn’t understand all the people complaining about space, though—you have to expect to be squished against other people. At least they’re all Obama supporters.)

About an hour later, Obama finally came onto the stage. I was able to see him for almost all of his 25- (more like 15-)minute speech if I stood on tiptoes, but at least they had fixed the speakers so that we could all hear him.

I didn’t really have room to jot down any direct quotations, but he said some pretty expected things about how the country started in Philadelphia and how it was now up to us, in Philadelphia and Pennsylvania, to bring about change. He did address Clinton’s efforts. One of the things he said that I remember (probably because I later saw it quoted in a CNN article) was that Clinton believes that the “say-anything, do-anything” politics of Washington can’t be changed, so we might as well nominate a candidate who knows how to play the game. Obama, however, is committed to changing the politics of Washington.

Despite the shortness of the speech, the entire crowd was revitalized from its sourness and tiredness at having spent five and a half hours standing around waiting. At least we had been fortunate enough to have perfect weather.

As soon as Obama dropped below the level of the crowd, having stepped off the stage, everyone turned around and pushed toward the exit. On the way out, I located my original water bottle about 20 feet back from where we had ended up. I threw it and another water bottle out on the way.

Instead of taking the subway back to Drexel, we joined the insane crowd of people flooding down Market Street. The crowd on the right spilled out into the street. Beeps from cars were originally celebratory, but eventually became more frustrated with the inability to drive among the people. There was even one person trying to turn a corner who had (Hillary) Clinton bumper stickers—needless to say, she was stalled by the mob of Obama supporters. The crowd was alive with spontaneous outbursts of “Yes, we can!” and “Obama, Obama!” It continued through City Hall (it looked like Obama supporters were storming City Hall, actually) before dispersing on the other side. Everything was so alive and energetic, it was amazing.

Philadelphia really loves Obama.

As eloquent as Barack is, she too is a very good speaker, though in a different way. She seemed really down-to-earth, sometimes even lapsing into an accent (what does the South Side of Chicago sound like?). She had very good control over the crowd, talking through our clapping to get us to be quiet so that she could move on with her speech.

She opened with a very funny summary of the campaign so far, catching up those of us who didn’t know by saying that she’s “married to this guy who’s running for president.” She went through all of the things that people said were really important—fundraising, the Iowa caucus, New Hampshire, Super Tuesday—until Barack was successful at them, after which they were devalued. One of her recurring images was the bar of American standards that everyone’s trying to reach that keeps moving once they think that they get to it.

She moved on to the more serious matter of education, (appropriately) sentimentally bringing in her hopes for her two daughters. She told of her and her brother’s education in the local public schools in the South Side of Chicago and how they both went to Princeton. She said that she tells this story because she wants everyone who “see[s her] to know what an investment in public education looks like.” Everybody clapped. She lamented that the dream jobs that people want to go into don’t even earn enough money to pay for the college degree required to go into those jobs. The focus on college tuition had to be because she was speaking at a college, and she went on to say that she and Barack had just recently finished paying off their college loans and asked, “When’s the last time you’ve seen a president of the United States who hasn’t paid off his [college] loans yet?” (She’s really very funny.)

She talked about the experience that Barack has from having traveled to so many countries while he was growing up (including a funny bit about his childhood, being raised by a teenaged, white, single mom in Kansas in the 1960s, saying that his mother was definitely a dreamer—another part of her speech was that American kids should be able to have the biggest dreams imaginable without being told “no”) and his seven-way race for state senate which he won.

Like much of Obama’s campaign, her speech was mainly pro-Obama (as opposed to anti-Clinton*), and ended in a positive direction. She asked us to “imagine a president of the United States of America who understands and respects other cultures” and, in talking about her and Barack’s upbringings, said, “We learned things like truth and honesty actually matter.” Her final note was that America is not where it needs to be yet, but that Obama would be a great step in pushing it in the right direction.

Throughout the speech, she kept asking “Am I telling you something that you don’t know?” and suggesting “Maybe I’m out of touch” when talking about working class people. I hadn’t quite gotten the effectiveness of this rhetoric until I realized its connection with the Obama elitism complaint, but it always got applause from the audience. The biggest round of applause and cheering, besides for when she entered and left, came when she called out to us as Pennsylvanians.

_____

Barack Obama is having an open rally downtown tomorrow night, and I’ll be damned if I don’t try to get in and see him. I’ll certainly post if I do.

On Radio Times this morning, the guest speaker said the cliché that this is an election of firsts—the first African American leading candidate, the first female leading candidate,… and the first time someone as old as John McCain is running. So, not just Colbert, but more serious news programs as well can’t find anything unique about McCain besides his age? Ha!

*Are the lawn signs everywhere “Hillary,” or is that just in Pennsylvania? Can the Democrats really endorse a candidate whose last name they’re afraid to put on their advertising because of its Republican-unification nature?

To incorporate the title: Because I am driving so slowly in the school zones, I find that I don’t really need to pay attention to the road. Instead of waiting for the next stop light, which I may or may not hit, I use the school zone stretch of road to change cds; get a drink; make sure I didn’t forget anything important; put shoes on or take them off; and, hell, even memorize poetry.

Further, there is more need to pay attention to your exact speed in a school zone: You want to get as many msph as allowed without going over and risking the higher fines for speeding in a school zone. So, naturally, some of the focus has to be directed at your own speedometer.

The problem is that most of the time (especially at 11am), there aren’t even any kids around who might get hit by the cars. I think that it’s probably out of frustration and spite that I often don’t pay attention in the school zones.

—–

There will probably be a much more substantial and important and interesting post coming up in the near future. I just have to beat the game….

Firstly, to Mike, without whom I would never have had a blog to transfer to this new site that he has both set up and is hosting. Eternal thanks are due him as long as this site exists.

Secondly, to Christina, who graciously allowed me to use of one of her subdomains for over two years. It is only recently that I was made aware that having your own website is extremely affordable if a nice friend will host it for you, and I became desirous of my own.

Thirdly, to any readers I might have left, though I do not expect to have many (or any at all, for now) after my post deficit.

I believe that those were the primary recipients of thanks. Unfortunately, now the Daily Show is on, and I am dreadfully distracted. It is probably for the best that I leave, though, because the other things I want to say will be better expressed in their own posts.

Monday morning I was heading for the trolley and noticed that the back right window of kuruma-kun (Car) was broken. It looked as if someone had hit it with a bat or some such tool, shattering the glass and leaving a little hole. I naturally worried that I had caused it. As it turns out, however, 13 cars in the area had been shot at with a beebee gun. Apparently, some vandals were riding around Clifton destroying property. Hmmm.

And again!

It shouldn’t be too hard to recall my post-colonial lit. professor (since I wrote about him in the last post). We were reading Jean Rhys’ Wide Sargasso Sea, which is a companion novel to Jane Eyre that deals with the [spoiler warning] supposedly crazy woman in the attic. It’s a background, essentially. Anyway, she ends up burning down the guy’s mansion in JE, and there’s one critic who suggests that Jean Rhys is encouraging the metaphorical burning of all books like Jane Eyre (that exploit colonial stereotypes). So, my professor picks his copy of JE and sets fire to the edges.
Canon?

In the post-colonial lit. course we read three novels by women, and the rest were written by men. As an end-of-term activity, we all voted on the books we liked most and least, what we would eliminate if we had to, etc. The women writers were spread out, and Salmon Rushdie won the most-liked. Then the professor explained that the real canon is determined by how many articles are written about particular authors or works. So we voted on what authors we had written about or were planning to write about. As it turns out, the three woman authors were at the top of that list.

My professor said that he knew of only one study done between the critics and their opinions on a work. There was some conference in which a person presented a study on critics of Ulysses. Apparently (I haven’t read it), the woman in it has an affair. So the presenter researched the critics who thought the woman was a whore versus those who thought she was liberated and found an overwhelming correlation between critics who thought she was a whore who had also been involved in affairs and divorces. What does this mean for criticism?

And finally

Ten-to-twelve-page papers are significantly harder to write than five-to-seven-page papers. At least there’s only one more to write.

Also, I find myself rather envious of my New York friends whose weekends have already started. If only the beginning language program were not so intensive! demo nihongo wa ii desu, and I wouldn’t trade it. I haven’t actually said anything about my classes this semester, have I? I’m taking post-colonial literature with an awesome professor (who took pictures—shashin o torimashita; forgive me, I have a test in the morning—of everyone so that he could make flashcards to learn our names) who said he would give extra credit to the person who could say something completely irrelevant about the readings. My other English class is on women’s poetry, but I swear I’m not turning into a feminist.

Bill Clinton came to my school yesterday (Wednesday, actually) with Lois Murphy and Ed Rendell. I waited in line for two hours, and then I waited around in the cloisters (luckily!—not everyone could get in to see them in person) for another hour and a half before all of the speakers showed up. Just as they were about to come out to do their speeches, it started raining. Admittedly, I did not stand in the rain to watch; I had secured a spot along the wall, and when it rained I just stayed under cover. Either Murphy or Rendell (you’d think I should be able to tell them apart, but I can’t remember) brought up something about global warming in their short speeches, which was pleasing. Clinton’s was about the original intent to form “a more perfect union”—a phrase he repeated often—and that the current, special interest, ideological (contrasted to philosophical), most right-wing group of Republican leaders do not have the same goal as our founders. He said that the Democrats were now the nation’s liberals as well as conservatives. Since he was at a college, he brought up a lot about college tuition and the cuts from the education budget that were used to pay his tax cut. He apologized and said that he prefers that we be able to go to college. He, having taken off his coat in the rain, said that it was his 31st wedding anniversary and he wanted to keep his coat nice because he was taking his wife out after the rally.

Several times people have tried to get me to register to vote in Bryn Mawr’s district or to volunteer for its Lois Murphy. I love when I tell them that I’m in Sestak’s district and they respond with things like, “Oh, stay in that district; we like Sestak,” and “Okay, if you put your information down we’ll forward it to Sestak’s campaign people.” I must make more of an effort this year to get the Democrats elected (more than in 2004, the only other time I was really that politically-active, when I only went out on election day’s night to make sure the Democrats were voting). Does anyone know if you need your voter registration card (that they sent in the mail) to vote if it’s your first time, or is photo id all that is required?

This evening during the Eagles game I was in my room (at home), reading a collection of Christina Rossetti sonnets (which were very lovely indeed). Every minute or so, the group of people out back or in one of the houses across the alley would chatter loudly, and I had imagined that it was a party. I soon realized that they were being loud about the football game, and I managed to ignore the noise. Suddenly, a bomb exploded. Or at least that’s what it seemed like, since I’ve been reading (for class) about violent colonial battles in Algeria. It was probably only a firework of some sort, but the sound reverberated and shook more than all of the noise-makers fired after it. I had, for about a second, seriously worried that a bomb had exploded.

The stairwells and hallways are very spacious. Note the double doors leading to this first floor hallway:

So it’s all luxurious and lovely and everything you’d expect the rich girls at the turn of the century to have. And then there are the servants’ quarters:

The servants’ quarters continue down this hallway, and some of the rooms have the glass doors and everything. Then you come to a wall and a stairway with an Exit sign, but do not find my room. As it turns out, you have to go down the stairs and around the corner to come to four rooms tucked away in the Lost Corridor. As least two of these rooms back here, including mine, are doubles. But they are wide doubles with windows on two walls so there can be air flow, and two separate closets and very low lighting:

That is my half of the room. It is so well-divided that my roommate and I, for whatever unknown reason, could tape a line down the middle and only cross paths at the entrance. By far, though, the best thing about living all the way back here, at least a minute’s walk from the laundry room and tea pantry, is the single bathroom:

See how there is only one shower, one stall, and one sink? That means there’s a private bathroom for the six (potentially eight) of us who live back here. Of course, if it’s occupied, we could always run up the stairs and use the bathroom at the end of the first grouping of servants’ rooms.

So this is where I live. As for an explanation as to why I haven’t posted in so freaking long and a recap of what I’ve been up to since June, that will have to wait until next time.