Classes started just under 2 weeks ago, and there are many more writing assignments and/or presentations to juggle this semester than last semester, but, in a sort of fair exchange, a good deal less reading. I attended her classes in the first week, out of solidarity. She can get quite nervous about starting all over again and having to gauge the levels of intellectual prowess within the room. Each class has its own standard: although always impressive, it's just a fact that some students gravitate towards some classes, and some students stray away from some classes. Anything with the word 'theory' in it pulls in flashers of terminology (diegesis, all the -isms, all the -ologies), and anything with the word 'James' attracts those keen on self-flagellation. This semester she's taking: 'James and Ozick/Faulkner and Morrison', 'Film Theory' and 'Poetry and History: Modernism'. Here's a quote from her diary on Day 1:
'Oh for shame: first class of the semester, and I forget how to pronounce the word 'preface', neglect to say anything insightful about Henry James despite being the only person in the room who had taken Henry James through Theory before Christmas, and, finally, faithfully repeat a tragedy of a typo when reading out loud ('Faulkner's achievement ...was foremost to articulate truths about the Sout and Sputherners'), looking perplexed when everyone, correctly, sees cause for amusement.'
Writing, for her - maybe for me too -, is an antidote to everything: embarrassment, shame, inferiority complexes, so much happiness you feel nauseous. Make it into a sentence and things instantly improve, become solid and manageable. Since then, though, that JOFM class has turned out fairly well. It's very small and is the most loaded work-wise out of all of them, but from the third lesson onwards, after Miles produced this incredible crucifixion allegory for a Faulkner short story, the atmosphere turned. That third class was something of a phenomenon for the idiot. They had all received an email in the morning informing them of Gail's absence, but with a request to carry on regardless sans professor. Only at Reed: everyone turned up, started at 1.10pm, and conducted a very civilised discussion which ran overtime. In the second week they moved onto Cynthia Ozick, and the idiot got all wide-eyed and in love. She has never read Ozick before, and is now experiencing that 'oh my goodness' sensation of all the treats to come, like jumping into a ball pool when you're a kid. Sorry - slap on the wrist - child.
Perhaps to counteract all these bloody novels, I suggested we visit the MLLL for the first time. The MLLL is Reed's comic book library - secretly coded and more silent inside than Reed's actual library. The idiot didn't really know where to start, so she did what all neophytes tend to do and headed for the comic original of a movie she recently watched. Thus, a cosy hour with the first episode of Scott Pilgrim.
There have been two screenings for Film Theory so far. In the first week we watched Intolerance by D. W. Griffith (3.15 hours of silent movie, 4 narratives, Lillian Gish rocking a cradle over and over), and in the second week we watched Eisenstein's The General Line (2 hours of complete silence, not even a soundtrack, sexualised interactions with farm machinery). On top of this we went to see The Illusionist at Cinema 21 last weekend, followed by fat food and supreme microbrews from Oregon. It was glorious, but the scenes in the Highlands made me quite teary. I haven't been home, let alone Scotland, in nearly 2 years now. Then on Saturday morning, the idiot and Aurore and Gianmarco and I watched The Kings of Pastry at the Living Room Theaters, to take notes for their 'Going to the Movies' assignment. It took almost an entire day to get in and out of Portland, which is probably the only fault I can count against this city. Too bloody relaxed: very few places open for lunch ON A SATURDAY, and then the only place that was open dawdled for about 45 minutes in serving us a - truly delicious, I concede - sandwich.
Last Saturday evening the Ethnic Heritage Ensemble played in the chapel as part of Black History Month. We wandered in by accident, but ended by dancing down the aisle with the rest of the 'congregation' to this crazy amalgam of jazz and Chicago and bongos. Afterwards, Justine deviously drove us to a strip club (we thought we were going to a bar for happy hour). I had a pretty fabulous time, doing market research on latex (there's so much you don't know) and chatting to the lovely girls who work there, but the idiot has never looked more uncomfortable in her life. She spent the half-hour of our patronage determinedly watching the skateboarding competition on TV, not really knowing where else to put her eyes. Gyration = a definite hazard. The Bob Marley birthday dance, at Mt. Tabor Theater, was much more suited to her needs. On Sunday it was Superbowl, which I feel compelled to mention in passing just because we're in America and that's what happens in America on the first Sunday of the month. Packers won, people ate pizza. Whatever.
It turns out that she
has already spent $100 more than the suggested spending for board plan C, so nutrition for this week has come, predominantly, courtesy of the cinnamon apple chips in Homer's Hut. Avoiding Commons is also an excellent excuse to hit some of the food carts. Yesterday we went to the 'A la Cart' (haha) site on 50th and Division, as a celebratory start to the weekend, and ate an ELK BURGER from this beautiful little place called 'Over the Top' which sources game from the Oregon wilds. It came with a pot of apple slaw and sprinkled smelly cheese. Gastro-bandic heaven. We walked all the way back home, stopping only for a Stumptown coffee on the way, and then descended into a food coma for the rest of the night.Consette x
PS. Hey Reed! Mubarak stepped down!
