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a day like today
Jan. 29th, 2004 02:52 amSo. Actual classes today! I had all but one, and I think they're all going to be interesting in their own ways. In Prof Comm, we're going to be building professional websites for some of the English faculty. I think the phrasing was "taking them on as clients." I'm actually a little excited about that, assuming my group gets someone cool like Dr. Mary or Dr. Regis.
Atwood & Woolf was fun today, but that's only cause I love Becky. The thing with Becky's classes, though, she takes notes on whatever you say during discussion. As someone who already has trouble speaking in class, that just really bothers me. She's all about trying to make you feel more comfortable, except when you say something she's intently writing everything down. But we're going to be reading The Blind Assassin towards the end of the semester, which I loved and had no one to talk about it with, so hopefully I'll open my mouth a lot when that book comes around.
We did an interesting exercise in my Creative Writing class. Our professor is this young guy (actually the college president's son) who's had stuff published in Harper's. He seems nice enough and will at least keep the class interesting. Anyway, he started talking about journals and diaries, and the fact that most people write journals with the idea in the back of their mind that someone is going to see it eventually. Which, to me, was incredibly interesting, since this is something I've been turning over in my head for the past few weeks or so--especially in regards to online journals. Anyway, he presented us with an exercise to avoid the kind of writing that is produced when one assumes it will eventually be read. He banged a small trashcan on the table and held up a box of matches and told us to write whatever we wanted to, because no one was going to see it, ever. After spending about five minutes assuring us that he really was going to burn our papers, and not trick us and actually read them as soon as we turned them in, he gave us a few minutes to write, and then we all trudged down three flights of stairs and out into the snow where he set fire to a trashcan full of scraps of paper. And I actually wrote about things that I wouldn't normally, that I've barely wrapped my head around internally, although I don't know if I wrote what I could have. I think I still was afraid that someone might read it, that mine would be the scrap that the wind blew out of the trashcan and onto the ground for everyone to see.
I went to visit Greg after dinner for a few hours. He's leaving for Boston tomorrow, for an interview with Harvard. We watched Angel (which I loved, of course!) and kind of laid around. It was lovely. I can still smell the scent of his skin on my hands, my arms.
Tomorrow I have my lone history class. The professor is supposed to be really cool, so I'm looking foward to it. What I'm not looking foward to? Completing the huge mound of reading that's already piled up. I'm worried this semester is going to wear me out.
It's 3:14 in the morning. I should be in bed. Headed that way now.
Atwood & Woolf was fun today, but that's only cause I love Becky. The thing with Becky's classes, though, she takes notes on whatever you say during discussion. As someone who already has trouble speaking in class, that just really bothers me. She's all about trying to make you feel more comfortable, except when you say something she's intently writing everything down. But we're going to be reading The Blind Assassin towards the end of the semester, which I loved and had no one to talk about it with, so hopefully I'll open my mouth a lot when that book comes around.
We did an interesting exercise in my Creative Writing class. Our professor is this young guy (actually the college president's son) who's had stuff published in Harper's. He seems nice enough and will at least keep the class interesting. Anyway, he started talking about journals and diaries, and the fact that most people write journals with the idea in the back of their mind that someone is going to see it eventually. Which, to me, was incredibly interesting, since this is something I've been turning over in my head for the past few weeks or so--especially in regards to online journals. Anyway, he presented us with an exercise to avoid the kind of writing that is produced when one assumes it will eventually be read. He banged a small trashcan on the table and held up a box of matches and told us to write whatever we wanted to, because no one was going to see it, ever. After spending about five minutes assuring us that he really was going to burn our papers, and not trick us and actually read them as soon as we turned them in, he gave us a few minutes to write, and then we all trudged down three flights of stairs and out into the snow where he set fire to a trashcan full of scraps of paper. And I actually wrote about things that I wouldn't normally, that I've barely wrapped my head around internally, although I don't know if I wrote what I could have. I think I still was afraid that someone might read it, that mine would be the scrap that the wind blew out of the trashcan and onto the ground for everyone to see.
I went to visit Greg after dinner for a few hours. He's leaving for Boston tomorrow, for an interview with Harvard. We watched Angel (which I loved, of course!) and kind of laid around. It was lovely. I can still smell the scent of his skin on my hands, my arms.
Tomorrow I have my lone history class. The professor is supposed to be really cool, so I'm looking foward to it. What I'm not looking foward to? Completing the huge mound of reading that's already piled up. I'm worried this semester is going to wear me out.
It's 3:14 in the morning. I should be in bed. Headed that way now.
