After much consideration, self-contemplation, and a lot of weighing the pros and cons of the decision over and over to a seemingly infinite degree I have decided to wait a year to apply to grad school. Here is how I came to decision:
First off, as most of my good friends can attest, I’m not one to put stuff off that’s important. Although I tend to procrastinate papers (case in point: the paper I’m putting off now in writing this blog) I never procrastinate on those important life decisions that one must make. I learned from several early/mid twenties personal crises that it’s best not to put off such decisions. That said, I’ve somehow managed to put off even asking for letters of recommendations for my application. I’ve sat down at least a half dozen times to write my personal statement and each time it comes out sounding like I have nothing better to do than go to grad school. Furthermore, the idea of even sitting down and working on my application makes me ill: I am physically tired of school to the core of my being and it hurts to even consider going for another year.
Second, and probably most importantly, I know that right now my heart is not in it. It’s just not. I have been going to school since 2004, and since spring semester 2006 I have been going year round (both semesters + summer school) full time. I’m exhausted!
Last, I have completed my goal. In an effort to make sense of all this decision making about grad school I thought it best to go back through my old journals and blogs from the last few years, especially those when I decided to go back to school, and I realized that I’ve even exceeded the goal I set out to do. When I went back to school in 2004 my goal was “to find a better job, and get an AA.” Both of those were completed: I found a new, great job, in a new field in spring of 2006, and I received not one, but two, AA’s in the summer of 2008. My goals are finished, completed: exceeded, considering I never even thought I could get a four year degree, especially from a school like UC Davis.
There you have it. A decision made and now that it’s down on my blog I feel I can finally stop fretting over this and plan my next year. I’m excited that we are still going to move to SoCal, and not going to school is going to give me ample time to find a job down there and work on my application and personal statement for 2011. Plus, it’s an opportunity to get some more experience in the library field, doing more volunteer work and getting more connections within different library circles and college campuses. For the first time in months I’m looking forward to next year.
What a relief. I like school and for awhile there I was feeling more burdened than pleasure; not a good feeling about something you love.
Thanks for reading, and thanks so much to everyone for the support. Everyone who gave me feed back on FB really helped me look at all perspectives, and it was great to know that so many people would support me despite the decision I make. I really have an awesome group of friends.
I'll keep this short. Today the readers for two of my classes were ready at the Davis Copy Shop. I called my mom to ask her if she would want to go with me: just a quick trip to Davis, pick up the readers and maybe lunch afterward. I picked her up around 12:30.
First, (and this should have been a sign from the beginning) my mom forgets to grab her house keys and doesn't realize this until she has locked the front door of the house. She tells me and I assure her that I have a key at my house and we'll just stop by there on the way back and get it. (My dad is out of town with Jason and we don't know when to expect them back.)
We get on the road and I miss the turn on to I-80 to Davis. I curse and my mom tells me to just take Longview Drive, which crosses 80 after about a mile. Sounds good to me. We are on Longview for all of maybe 3 minutes when all of a sudden I see a huge chunk of road asphalt in the middle of the road right in front of my bumper. I swerve to avoid hitting it with my tire, knowing that if I hit it I will DESTROY my tire(s) along with my rim(s) if I do, and the asphalt SCRAPES down the entire center of my car. We immediately pull over and my mom hops out and looks under the car: there's no leaking and my car is still running and the gauges are all reading normal, so we turn around to get the HUGE chunk of asphalt out of the road.
NOTE: the asphalt came out from the side of a manhole on Longview. I picked it up and threw it on the side of the road and now there is a huge pothole there. Good luck if you have to drive through there.
We get back into the car and go all of maybe on mile when my car will no longer accelerate. My foot is pressing on the gas and there is not even a revving of the engine. We pull over, and since my mom has AAA road service, she calls for a tow. We wait 40 minutes on Roseville road...*sigh*
My mom has the tow truck driver take us to the Honda dealer at the Roseville Auto Mall since Jason and I know a service technician there and we trust him with our car. By this time we have contacted my dad and Jason who are near Auburn and are going to pick us up from the Honda dealer. They arrive soon after the technician give me a rough estimate and fills out the paperwork and by this time I'm ready to go home: we've not eaten and have been sitting on the side of the road or at the Honda dealer for almost two hours.
My dad goes out to start the car that he and Jason drove to pick us up in: LOW AND BEHOLD the car WON'T start. Out of gas.
I kid you not.
So we have to call AAA...again...to have them deliver gas for the car. The guy comes out, puts a few gallons in the car: STILL will not start. Apparently something is broken and decided to break WHILE ON ROUTE TO PICK US UP FROM BROKEN CAR.
So, yeah, today sucked.
Basically, I left my house today at noon and did not get back until 6:30 tonight. What sort of productive things did I do? Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I sat on the side of the road or at the Honda dealership for nearly 5 hours doing nothing waiting for tow trucks and broken cars.
I'm exhausted. I didn't eat until 6 pm today. AND, to top it all off, I didn't even pick up my class readers.
Needless to say, I'm not going anywhere else tonight and maybe tomorrow. If another car breaks on me I'm going to lose it.
There you have it. Now I'm going to go drink until I'm not pissed off anymore. Thanks for reading.
First I would like to start out by saying I love southern California. When I tell people that they look at me as if I am missing a part of my brain, but it's true. I love it. I love that there are million people down here; I love that they all have place to go; I love that everyone (mostly) ignores one another and, most of all, I love the anonymity. It is hard to stick out down here just because of the sheer magnitude of the population. And the weather on the coast cannot be beat. Long Beach and all the small coastal towns are so cute and the weather is cool, and you can live fifteen minutes from the ocean. I love it here.
Second, UCLA. I didn't even bother making an appointment mostly because I wanted only to wander the campus and see if it felt like "home." We have all had those experiences where we set our heart on something, get there, and are completely disappointed by the reality. I didn't want go through the trouble of tracking someone down, making an appointment only to hate the campus and feel like I wasted my time. Plus I wanted to see how friendly the department was: if they were complete dicks I was just going to cut my losses.
I arrive at the campus and it is BEAUTIFUL. I thought I was smitten with Davis the first time I walked around, UCLA is overwhelming. There are the huge brick buildings, some of the first built on the campus from what I understand, and you can see off in the distance the hills of Los Angeles. Breathtaking. I manage to find the L&IS department and walk into the office asking the admin assistant if I can speak to someone regarding the program. He points me in the direction of the graduate advisor who is kind enough to sit down with me and answer all my questions regarding entry into the program, even giving me tips on what to (not) write in my personal statement!
Not only do have a decent enough GPA (the average last year was a 3.8, but they take people from all ranges of 3.0+), but I don't have to stress about the classes I haven't taken in order to apply for the program! I just need to take them before I begin my classes (next year). The only other thing I need to do is take the GRE and I have to store (ideally) above the 60th percentile in every category, but I feel pretty confident I can do that.
I am so, so happy! If I could get into UCLA...well, I don't know what I'd do! I can't even believe that I can even have a shot, let alone actually do it! I am overwhelmed with joy at the moment; it's almost too good to be true. I really hope I'm accepted.
I attached some pictures I took of the campus with my phone. They are not great, but I hope you enjoy them. They really do no justice to the beauty of the campus. :)
I went a funeral. No bid deal; some distant great-aunt I have never met. I went because my dad asked me to and I am a good daughter who wants to be there when her dad needs her to be. Funerals: never easy, but how had can it be if you don't know the person?
My grandmother's youngest sister is the deceased; my dad's side. We walk in and there is this huge group of people who share my blood. I look around recognizing faces I have never seen and it's the strangest feeling. It's like meeting people you've known you whole life for the first time. My grandmother had thirteen siblings and all but two of them are there with their children and their grandchildren. Generations upon generations of people unknown to me because of one argument no one seems to remember. Even my dad does not know what happened, or my aunt who makes a point to refer to her "crazy mother," for she cannot understand why my grandmother would turn her back on this family.
My dad introduces my mom, me and my boyfriend, Jason--"we're trying to get them married!" my aunt feigns to whisper--and my grandmother's many siblings take turns hugging us and look at me with wonder: "the last time I saw you was twenty-five years ago!" You were in a diaper!" They shake our hands, hug us and it is hard not to feel like I missed out on something. My dad makes a point to tell them that my brother was sorry he could notmake it, he had to work. "You have a son, Willy? I didn't know you had another baby!" an uncle declares. My dad pulls out his phone, proudly showing them pictures of my twenty-five year old brother as if they require proof of his existence. "He looks just like your father!" they each exclaim in turn as they pass the phone around. "He's an engineer. An electrical engineer at Honeywell--and he drives a Corvette!" my dad cannot hide his pride as he talks about his son.
My mom, Jason and I sit down in the pew as my dad and his sister rush from one group of people after another re-introducing themselves to cousins they haven't seen since they were in their youth. Before marriages. Before children. Promises of phone calls and emails, picture exchanges and holiday dinners are circulated without hesitation. My grandmother's oldest sister turns around to me, clasps my hand and says "I am so glad you could make it; it's so great to see you all again."
I don't want to let go of her hand. She looks like my grandmother and her hand feels like my grandmother's did: that soft, cool touch of someone who has seen more and touched more than I can imagine. I never knew the bad things about my grandparents; I never saw the arguments, the fights, and the split in this family. My parents never told me and my brother what were were missing, and we didn't know to ask. I see my grandmother everywhere.
I can feel my face flush and become warm remembering her funeral only a few months before. Meeting these lost relatives for the first time. I can still hear my dad, through sobs, making a point to ask forgiveness on behalf of my grandmother. Of those people my grandmother had cut off over the years in anger, in turn isolating her children and grandchildren: those mysterious people who showed up at the funeral, reaching out to this family that had grown apart from their own.
"Why are you crying?" my mom asks me. It is odd; I don't know anyone there and I have never met the sister who died.
"It's...it's too soon. It's just too soon."
My mom's eyes well up too and we stare straight ahead toward the coffin.
...it's a perfect time for a cold. As if I don't have enough to do without having to set everything aside for a day to recover.
Fuck.
I am rolling my eyes at life right now. Just had to share. Now, to make myself minimally acceptable to go out into the world for basic cold-recovery items.
I have a feeling this week is going to suck. (sigh)
As of Tuesday I have been waking up with the first question I ask myself being "What the hell was I thinking?" I had a great job and I quit because of school, and now here I am up to my eyeballs in literature and papers during what might be the most mild and beautiful summer I've ever experienced in Sacramento.
What the hell was I thinking?
It's strange to think that somewhere along the way school took priority. It's even stranger to think that in less than a year (307 days, as a matter of fact) I will be walking across the stage to receive my A.B. from a University of California institution. And even more strange still is that I have a great shot at getting accepted into another one for graduate work: the surprises never cease.
I ask myself: when did all of this begin? I have been trying to remember the exact moment I had finally convinced myself that school was more important than my job. It always seemed as if, no matter how many times I told people that school WAS more important, work still took precedence: school didn't pay my rent or my bills. Hell, I couldn't even qualify for financial aid from ARC (a rant for another time), so why should I bother focusing on an education that, as far as I was concerned, made me believe could do better out in the working world?
Which is what brings me to "senioritis." I find it amusing, a sort of great cosmic joke really, that just about the time I get serious about my education--when I quit my job, plan for my future with volunteer work, internships and focusing my time on my education solely--is exactly the same time I want nothing more than for it to be over. Maybe it's just that the grueling pace of the quarter system instills that in people--three quarters, each ten weeks long, minimum of 13 units--and makes them all the more in a hurry to want to finish. If you calculate that awful equation along with the following stipulations: all literature and philosophy classes, plus the two rounds of the 6-week summer sessions, what you are left with is a conglomeration of never ending reading and paper assignments, and only a handful of days during the year with which to recover.
Forgive the language, but: fucking hell on earth.
Now, the best I can do at this point is continue my mantra: almost done. After 4 years straight of full time school, with a year of screwing around after I graduated high school, I am almost done. I've done well (as my GPA clearly shows), I've learned so much, I can talk about what I've learned, and I can see the effects of my education in everything I do. Plus, I'm damned smart, and I mean that as humbly as I can possibly say it, but it makes me proud that I can say that, since I don't think I would have said it and meant it even a few short years ago.
[almostdonealmostdonealmostdone]...*sigh*
So, senioritis, I accept you; I will live with you; I will deal with you. However, it ends June 2010, my friend, so keep in mind this is a short run. Then, it's off to bigger and better things, and you will be nothing more than a fond memory from my time at UCD.
Literature, Science and the Problem of Subjectivity
Those who cannot empirically measure the importance or value of literature have often questioned the value of it beyond basic storytelling or perhaps historical motivations or moral growth. It does seem counter-intuitive for a person to put a numerical value on the importance of literature in society, after all, the subjectivity that is implied by the idea of enjoyment is interpreted as a strict form of subjectivity, not reconciled to a single value that is the same to each person equally. Examples of this sort of subjectivity are found everyday in conversations about literature: people who will argue that one book is better than another for various reasons or an author is better than another because emphasis of certain stylistic qualities that change importance from person to person. It does seem absurd that the author would intend or even expect his text to have a "universal" interpretation for all readers. With the myriad of personalities in the world and the enormous potential for readership, the possibility of even two people identifying, interpreting and mentally constructing the text in an identical fashion is a statistical fantasy. It is, of course, up for argument that one can even distinguish intent of the author as an identifiable construct, or even that the ideas of the audience can be articulated in such a way to make them available for side by side comparison. It must be asked then, is there a certain particular, universal reason to read literature?
Superficially it would seem that science does not suffer the ambiguity of subjectivity as literature does.Instead, science maintains an attitude of ‘objectivity,’ expecting the same from all other studies.Biology, physics, and chemistry have descended upon the other disciplines as a merciless predator tearing away at the flesh of their victims with methodical scientific evidence to undermining all other superiority with the intended purpose of explaining and defining the world “objectively.”What the humanities, especially, have left are the few remnants of those things not yet explainable by science.Literature, which is at best an abstraction of reality, cannot compare to science with its powers of explanation, but literature has a strength that the sciences do not: literature can rule the realm of the imaginary because it is not limited by the numbers, empirical measurements and scientific method that bars science from exploring those things inside the realm of the mind.The measurements that science demands are exactly those things that literature can operate either with or without, so the flexibility of literature is exemplified in its flexibility of not demanding an empirical construct.
Of course it seems that literature has a certain inherent subjectivity in the way it is constructed that is eliminated in science by the use of methods and standards of measurements. For example, literature is often told from the perspective of one or two characters, which may or may not be identifiable with the audience for which the piece is written. This identification (or lack of) on the part of the audience seems to justify subjective interpretation: if each reader, ideal or otherwise, can cultivate their own an identity that either counters or cooperates with the identity of the character of the literature then is it hard to believe that the literature is creating an individual (subjective) experience for each member of its audience? Surely the author does not create his text with the intent that each reader should feel exactly the same way about the characters or the events.However, science may be expecting too much in their objectivity and find itself victim to the same kinds of subjective problems.Before any scientist can set out to measure his work he must first establish a basis of measurement be it the meter, the ounce, the gram, another construct of comparison.Once he establishes a method for measurement accurate enough for his purpose, he must convince others of the accuracy and relevance of his measurement.This process, though mostly unconsidered by the scientific community, might be a cause for concern only because the implication may be that measurement itself is based on completely arbitrary objects or lengths.
It must be wondered how this gap between science and literature might be reconciled or if it can be at all.The Formalists took a step to create a “science of literature that would be both independent and factual” (Eichenbaum 1062).The Formalists subscribed to the idea that science maintained a conviction for truth, and would not compromise itself to falling short of finding the truth: “science lives not by settling on truth, but by overcoming error” (1062).At first glance it seems that the Formalists may have found the olive branch to science; by adopting its structure and formulating an approach that understood all literature through the same basic “method” there might finally be some way of organizing the value of literature based on a set standard of criteria.Critics would be able to ask the same questions of each piece and attempt to find the answers given and there might be a direct connection between literature and science.
Can Formalism account for the broad spectrum of forms that are interwoven into so many literatures?Mikhail Bakhtin argues for the artistic formulation of the novel as both an aesthetic form and as a versatile use of language that exceeds poetry in its scope. The novel incorporates so many stylistic functions that it cannot be captured by only one set standard or subscribe to the same expectations of poetry.
The novel as a whole is a phenomenon multiform in style and variform in speech and voice. In it the investigator is confronted with several heterogeneous stylistic unities, often located on different linguistic levels and subject to different stylistic controls...These heterogeneous stylistic unities, upon entering the novel, combine to form a structured artistic system, and are subordinated to the higher stylistic unity of the work as a whole, a unity that cannot be identified with any single one of the unities subordinated to it. (1191-1192)
Formalism, because of its limited approach, cannot account for the multi-form structure of a work that is as complex as the novel, where there is more to the from than an algorithm or equation that dictates the placement of words in a kind of universal form.
Where might one turn to reconcile the ties between science and literature?Communication is necessary in both disciplines without which even the most basic of ideas cannot be constructed for consideration among peers or the public. The next place to look might be found within the one thing that both disciplines have in common: language.
At any given moment of its evolution, language is stratified not only into linguistic dialects in the strict sense of the word…but also…into languages that are socio-ideological: languages of social groups, “professional” and “genetic” languages, languages of generations and so forth. (Bakhtin 1199)
There are, of course, different kinds of languages for different disciplines, made clear when one directly compares the words and styles used by science and literature when communicating within the disciplines.However, the fundamental elements of language are present, the syntax and grammar rules remain mostly intact, and communication can be maintained between two different people of two very different disciplines with mostly ease and only little explanation of terms.The reconciliation then, must take place within the structure of language itself and the recognition of the heteroglossia that permeates the language throughout, lending itself to constant comparisons and contrasts for the sake of importance or social relevance.
Though taking a scientific approach to literature does not seem effective in its empirical study of literature, at least in the way it has been explored by the Formalists, one might be inclined to wonder what would happen if science was explored through literature.Science fiction explores the ideas of science in great depth, but another way to look at science ‘literarily’ might be to take scientific theories and explore them not only as if they were fiction, but postulate them as fiction, removing entirely any links to the reality which they try to explain, and instead imagine the possibilities of a world where these empirical facts were deemed meaningless or unimportant.Given the arbitrary nature of measurement, as described above, it is not much of a stretch to imagine the shortcomings of science in such a way to render the discipline helpless in the realm of the imaginary.Literature, on the other hand, can operate both in the realm of science, as a tool for exploring hypothetical scenarios, and in the realm of the imaginary, by creating worlds where the laws of science are not only inapplicable, but deemed completely useless or even unnecessary.
For example, in science the concept of time is an important tool of measurement to assist in the accuracy of experimentation and longevity of scientific measurement.Time is not questioned in science except to establish a ground for comparison between experiments and it is not doubted that time is an influence on the outcome of experimentation.Literature, in the realm of science, is also subject to time—the time of the reader to sit and physically read the text—which constitutes participation in a sort of science experiment by timing the point at which a subject begins reading and finishes reading a text.Once the same experiment is moved into the realm of literature, the same rules do not necessarily apply: within the text what is postulated as truth is what is true, regardless of the experience of the reader.If an author writes, for instance, that there exists no concept of time within the frame of the novel, then it does not matter how much science attempts to interfere with the experience of the words on the page, the literature is impenetrable to the effects, and science is helpless to influence the experience of the reader since science cannot operate in the imaginary, enforcing absolute objectivity and adherence to its rules.
Why read literature?Literature is an opportunity to cultivate ideas in a realm free from the constraints of not only science, but also of subjectivity.Though it feels like a safe argument to say that all literature is subjective, due to the nature of language, without any inherent qualities, it can be argued that the perceived subjectivity is only a product of disciplines—like science—enforcing rules and methods on the world in an attempt to make sense of reality according to their own standards. The rules are an illusion to bring sense to an otherwise unpredictable world. Even the rules of language fall victim to the incessant rules and regulations of science, but they are only constructs of the human mind. These constructs allow us to see patterns, but they also enforce the rule of subjectivity—an interpretation that can only be conceived of within the constructs of the rules of both science and literature. Literature, however, offers more freedom for ideas, allowing the mind free reign and ultimately an escape of the confines of law and rules, which may be seen as a great reason to find one lost in a good piece of literature.
Works Cited
Bakhtin, Mikhail.From Discourse in the Novel.The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. First Edition. Editors: Leitch, Vincent B., et. al.W.W. Norton & Company, New York and London, 2001.Pp. 1190-1220.
Eichenbaum, Boris.From The Theory of the “Formal Method”. The Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism. First Edition. Editors: Leitch, Vincent B., et. al.W.W. Norton & Company, New York and London, 2001. Pp. 1062-1087.
