Septmeber 21: Great University, Department Meeting, So Damn Serious

Once I visited a great university and wandered, a stranger, into the subterranean halls of its famous biology department.  I saw a sign on a door:  ichthyology department.  The door was open a crack, and as I walked past I glanced in.  I saw just a flash.  There were two white-coated men seated opposite each other on high lab stools at a hard-surfaced table.  They bend over identical white enamel trays.  On one side, one man, with a lancet, was just cutting into an enormous preserved fish he'd taken from a jar.  On the other side, the other man, with a silver spoon, was eating a grapefruit.  I laughed all the way back to Virginia.

Dillard revels in pointing out the ridiculous or ironic in her life.  Walking the hallowed halls of some possible Ivy League school, she spies an unexpected scene.  Two scientists (presumably)--one carrying out the work of science with a surgical instrument and the other scooping out the insides of a grapefruit with a spoon.  It's hard to take that image seriously.

I teach at a university, in a department where, sometimes, far too many people take themselves far too seriously.  While I think the pursuit of literature and writing is a serious and worthy endeavor, I also find the humorless affectation of some of my colleagues to be somewhat ridiculous.  Dillard would agree.

As a small example, at the last department meeting, a very heated debate broke out over the issue of whether graduate and teaching assistants should be allowed to attend department meetings.  I was not at the meeting, but one of my colleagues was.  She said that, for fifteen minutes, voices were raised and tempers flared.  It was as if they were arguing about giving the graduate students nuclear codes to launch missiles.

Again, I am in no way trying to diminish the work done by members of the English Department.  They are a hard-working and dedicated group of individuals.  However, the subjects discussed in English Department meetings are not state secrets.  They are questions about curriculum and courses and administrative duties.  In the nearly 20 years I have been teaching at the university, and in all the department meetings I have attended during that time, I can count on one hand how often sensitive, potentially confidential information was discussed.

I am a little tired of people with lancets who won't take a break from dissecting their fish to eat some grapefruit.  Life is way too short to be so damn serious.  And, if something is being said that may anger or upset a person or group of people, perhaps it simply shouldn't be uttered.  As my mother taught me at a very young age, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all."

Saint Marty's solution to this dilemma:  invite the graduate students to attend one department meeting.  They will never want to go to another one ever again.

September 17: Tired Again, Philip Levine, "Get Up"

Got home about an hour ago from the university.  It was a long day of work and teaching.  By the end of my night class, I was almost falling asleep.  That's a pretty hard thing to do with Pulp Fiction playing on the screen.  Tarantino does not lend himself to napping.  Doing jello shots, yes.  Relaxation, no.

And I have to get up early again tomorrow.  Department meeting at the medical office.  Then, if that wasn't exciting enough, I have eight hours of computer training to look forward to.  I'm going to be drooling on the keyboard in the first fifteen minutes.  If I'm lucky, I'll be struck with a severe case of violent diarrhea.

I hate alarm clocks.  For some reason, I always wake up a half hour before the alarm sounds, and I lie in bed, eyes squeezed shut, determined to fall back asleep.  Usually, I do manage to drift off again, about five minutes before I have to get up.

I have a poem from Phil Levine about waking up.  It seems he's not a big fan of mornings, either.

Saint Marty is ready for a vacation.

Get Up

by:  Philip Levine

Morning wakens on time
in subfreezing New York City.
I don't want to get out,
thinks the nested sparrow,
I don't want to get out
of my bed, says my son,
but out in Greenwich Street
the trucks are grinding and honking
at United Parcel, and the voices
of loudspeakers command us all.
The woman downstairs turns
on the TV, and the smoke
of her first sweet joint rises
toward the infinite stopping
for the duration in my nostrils.
The taxpayers of hell are voting
today on the value of garbage,
the rivers are unfreezing
so the pure white swans may ride
upstream toward the secret source
of sweet waters, all the trains
are on time for the fun of it.
It is February of the year 1979
and my 52nd winter is turning
toward spring, toward cold rain
which gives way to warm rain
and beaten down grass.  If I
were serious I would say I
take my stand on the edge
of the future tense and offer
my life, but in fact I stand
before a smudged bathroom mirror
toothbrush in hand and smile
at the puffed face smiling
back out of habit.  Get up,
honey, I say, it could be worse,
it could be a lot worse,
it could  be happening to you.

What's to like?