Watching the returns come in yesterday was strangely disappointing. I would have had a lot more to say about politics and presidential elections way back in the day, but right now, I think that plus ca change, plus c'est le meme. Roared through Heart of Darkness yesterday and through Chinua Achebe's critical essay on same, labelled: Images of Africa: Racism in Conrad's Heart of Darkness. There is a lot that could be said about this novel (indeed what hasn't?) and I am not going to add my tuppenceworth right now. But in class this morning, with a wonderful, energetic (sometimes self-congratulatory) postcolonial theorist, I discovered this: that at the Berlin Conference in 1885, when the Congo was divided up between France, Portugal and Belgium, hosted by Bismarck, the major part of Congo, was given to King Leopold, and not to the state of Belgium. It became his own private playground, outside of any supranational power, any civil administration and any constitution. It was raped, pillaged and was a centre of slave trading. Hence the great novel, Heart of Darkness.
I apologize in advance to the readers for the next few weeks will likely be talking about certain books and literature, for this is one chance in a lifetime, for me to recover what another lost youth could have looked like.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
bowel movements
Descended into the depths of an ionic/doric column encased faux roman building, otherwise known as Widener Library, to discover an old interview in a now-defunct tattered African journal, with Michael Ondaatje. One hour later, I emerged victorious and slightly dazed, for the quality of the interview, the unguarded responses, was well worth the hour spent in the bowels of Harvard Yard.
I know that (all four) readers of this blog are vividly acquainted with my obsession with Ondaatje, but perhaps not all are acquainted as well with his oeuvres, and so here is a standalone passage, from Anil's Ghost, which might hint to others, of greater works behind.
He was staying at his aunt's house in Boralesgamuwa, and she and her friends were playing bridge on the long porch that surrounded the house. He came towards them carrying a lit candle, shielding the flame. He placed it on a side table a yard or so to the right of them. No one noticed this. He drifted back into the house. A few minutes later Gamini crawled on his belly with his air rifle through the grass, stalking his way from the bottom of the garden towards the house. He was wearing a small camouflage hat of leaves to disguise his presence even further. He could almost hear the four women bidding, having halfhearted conversations.
He estimated they were twenty yards away. He loaded the air rifle and positioned himself like a sniper, elbows down, legs at angles to give him balance and firmness, and fired. Nothing was hit. He reloaded and settled in to aim again. This time he hit the side table. One of the women looked up, cocking her head, but she could see nothing around her. What he wished to do was shoot out the flame of the candle with the pellet, but the next shot flew low, only a few inches above the red porch floor, and hit an ankle. At that instant, simultaneous with the gasp from Mrs. Coomaraswamy, his aunt looked up and saw him with the air rifle hugged against his cheek and shoulder, aiming right at them.
I know that (all four) readers of this blog are vividly acquainted with my obsession with Ondaatje, but perhaps not all are acquainted as well with his oeuvres, and so here is a standalone passage, from Anil's Ghost, which might hint to others, of greater works behind.
He was staying at his aunt's house in Boralesgamuwa, and she and her friends were playing bridge on the long porch that surrounded the house. He came towards them carrying a lit candle, shielding the flame. He placed it on a side table a yard or so to the right of them. No one noticed this. He drifted back into the house. A few minutes later Gamini crawled on his belly with his air rifle through the grass, stalking his way from the bottom of the garden towards the house. He was wearing a small camouflage hat of leaves to disguise his presence even further. He could almost hear the four women bidding, having halfhearted conversations.
He estimated they were twenty yards away. He loaded the air rifle and positioned himself like a sniper, elbows down, legs at angles to give him balance and firmness, and fired. Nothing was hit. He reloaded and settled in to aim again. This time he hit the side table. One of the women looked up, cocking her head, but she could see nothing around her. What he wished to do was shoot out the flame of the candle with the pellet, but the next shot flew low, only a few inches above the red porch floor, and hit an ankle. At that instant, simultaneous with the gasp from Mrs. Coomaraswamy, his aunt looked up and saw him with the air rifle hugged against his cheek and shoulder, aiming right at them.
Monday, February 04, 2008
chronoschism
written about Anil's Ghost, by Michael Ondaatje,
This novel is characterized by those abrupt breaks in time, that Ursula Heisse calls , "chronoschisms", ruptures that postmodern novelists, unlike their modernist predecessors, refuse to assimilate to the "unifying time of the individual mind". That is, the politics of Sri Lanka, seem to reflect back postmodern notions of the collapse of grand narratives, the fragility and impermanence of identity, the failure of history to provide us with a coherent account of our origins, and the moral ambiguities of action and character in a world where cause and effect are endlessly complex. That nothing lasts, that granite monuments crumble, seems to drive him to value the briefest fragments of time, to respect the moment of absolute love or generosity, the flash of intuition, the graceful walk of a young woman who will not survive another day. The artist's ability to identify fragments of beauty and nobility, even in times of terror, matches the scientist's ability to identify "permanent truths, the same for Troy as for Colombo," in the mineral traces of a soil sample.
Margaret Scanlan
This novel is characterized by those abrupt breaks in time, that Ursula Heisse calls , "chronoschisms", ruptures that postmodern novelists, unlike their modernist predecessors, refuse to assimilate to the "unifying time of the individual mind". That is, the politics of Sri Lanka, seem to reflect back postmodern notions of the collapse of grand narratives, the fragility and impermanence of identity, the failure of history to provide us with a coherent account of our origins, and the moral ambiguities of action and character in a world where cause and effect are endlessly complex. That nothing lasts, that granite monuments crumble, seems to drive him to value the briefest fragments of time, to respect the moment of absolute love or generosity, the flash of intuition, the graceful walk of a young woman who will not survive another day. The artist's ability to identify fragments of beauty and nobility, even in times of terror, matches the scientist's ability to identify "permanent truths, the same for Troy as for Colombo," in the mineral traces of a soil sample.
Margaret Scanlan
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Whimper anew
The end of the week, to paraphrase Eliot, tapered off, not with a whimper, but with a bang, trekking out to Longwood to meet a f(r)iend from high school, (as C says, what assed-out high school did you go to anyway?! why are your high-school friends everywhere except Singapore!?) in the rain, sleet and snow and just about lost the will to live but managed to see a part of Boston that was urban and inner city, and with its own energy, optimism and problems. Missed the debate on Thursday night, but had a fascinating discussion about housing, mixed-income housing, and mixed-land use, because the problems in rebuilding is that public housing is merely a physical structure which is no doubt essential, but does not by itself solve the problems of education, health, poverty and racial inequality. Instead public housing must be thought of as a site, where other services should also be brought in by government to congregate, and must be cross-incentivized to do sol. Unfortunately it rarely does.
Then watched Juno at 3pm with friends because it was Friday and there was nothing else to do. (I also bumped into Robin Williams the night before at Red House, a charming restaurant with a crackling fireplace where copious amounts of wine was imbibed- he was battered, newly out of rehab, all hairy, but with an irrepressible twinkle in his bright eyes). I finished my case which took 9 hours of bleary-eyed work, far more than ever anticipated. And more importantly; WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!! Because I secured the redoubtable Terence Blanchard, a Grammy Award winning jazz musician to come and play at the conference, from his new Grammy-nominated trumpet album: Tales Of God's Will; A Requiem to Katrina. (http://www.terenceblanchard.com/).
Then Friday night was spent at a 5 hour dinner with M and C, getting drunker and drunker, sillier and sillier, talking about a certain very attractive lieutenant-colonel in the airforce (who does not vote, which sends C into tizzies everytime, sketches apples and trees, separately and is from a family of union members), classes, and our quadrangle of love. And we are getting ever closer to the end, at the end of the first week of class, and talk of graduation and the summer and families meeting families are in the air. In that spirit, here is a poem I have posted before...
God Abandons Antony,
When suddenly, at the midnight hour
an invisible troupe is heard passing
with exquisite music, with shouts
your fortune that fails you now, your works
that have failed, the plans of your life
that have all turned out to be illusions, do not
mourn in vain
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
bid her farewell, the Alexandria that is leaving
Above all, do not be fooled, do not tell
yourself,
it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;
do not stoop to such vain hopes.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
as it becomes you who have been worthy of
such a city,
approach the window with firm step,
and with emotion, but not
with the entreaties and complaints of the
coward,
as a last enjoyment listen to the sounds,
the exquisite instruments of the mystical
troupe,
and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are
losing.
Constantine. P. Cavafy, 1911
Then watched Juno at 3pm with friends because it was Friday and there was nothing else to do. (I also bumped into Robin Williams the night before at Red House, a charming restaurant with a crackling fireplace where copious amounts of wine was imbibed- he was battered, newly out of rehab, all hairy, but with an irrepressible twinkle in his bright eyes). I finished my case which took 9 hours of bleary-eyed work, far more than ever anticipated. And more importantly; WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!! Because I secured the redoubtable Terence Blanchard, a Grammy Award winning jazz musician to come and play at the conference, from his new Grammy-nominated trumpet album: Tales Of God's Will; A Requiem to Katrina. (http://www.terenceblanchard.com/).
Then Friday night was spent at a 5 hour dinner with M and C, getting drunker and drunker, sillier and sillier, talking about a certain very attractive lieutenant-colonel in the airforce (who does not vote, which sends C into tizzies everytime, sketches apples and trees, separately and is from a family of union members), classes, and our quadrangle of love. And we are getting ever closer to the end, at the end of the first week of class, and talk of graduation and the summer and families meeting families are in the air. In that spirit, here is a poem I have posted before...
God Abandons Antony,
When suddenly, at the midnight hour
an invisible troupe is heard passing
with exquisite music, with shouts
your fortune that fails you now, your works
that have failed, the plans of your life
that have all turned out to be illusions, do not
mourn in vain
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
bid her farewell, the Alexandria that is leaving
Above all, do not be fooled, do not tell
yourself,
it was a dream, that your ears deceived you;
do not stoop to such vain hopes.
As if long prepared, as if courageous,
as it becomes you who have been worthy of
such a city,
approach the window with firm step,
and with emotion, but not
with the entreaties and complaints of the
coward,
as a last enjoyment listen to the sounds,
the exquisite instruments of the mystical
troupe,
and bid her farewell, the Alexandria you are
losing.
Constantine. P. Cavafy, 1911
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Itinerantly yours,
In the film Ordinary People (set to a single piece of music that plays repeatedly and is its only source of continuity, Pachelbel's Canon), Timothy Hutton says "You can't break the ball. Can't break the floor. Can't break anything in a bowling alley. And that's what I like about bowling alleys. Can't even break the record".
What is this world we live in now? Are those of us who truly cannot stay wedded to anything, who burn with the desire to be relevant, but who have a heightened capacity to enjoy the quotidian, perpetually unfulfilled? Incapable of generating interactions that culminate in stability? Icarus drowning? I don't know. All I know is that this itinerant lifestyle shows that there is a tunnel at the end of every light.
This is what comes of having far too much time on one's hand, watching more House, My So-Called Life and Big Shots all in one day. As CNS says "How can you possibly have such good taste in literature but such masala taste in films?"!
What is this world we live in now? Are those of us who truly cannot stay wedded to anything, who burn with the desire to be relevant, but who have a heightened capacity to enjoy the quotidian, perpetually unfulfilled? Incapable of generating interactions that culminate in stability? Icarus drowning? I don't know. All I know is that this itinerant lifestyle shows that there is a tunnel at the end of every light.
This is what comes of having far too much time on one's hand, watching more House, My So-Called Life and Big Shots all in one day. As CNS says "How can you possibly have such good taste in literature but such masala taste in films?"!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
shattered glass
more shattered glass pasta, and I'm really not feeling well at the moment.
Here is an excerpt, shamelessly stolen from another blog, but extraordinarily prescient, for the newest reader of my blog, JP.
back then, knowing myself beloved, exuberant in your presence, I was the flowering tree: daily transforming, girl-child to tree, careless of blossoms, daily unleafed, daily budding, lavish with words, immoderate in joy, a willing daphne, bride of the king's son.
Here is an excerpt, shamelessly stolen from another blog, but extraordinarily prescient, for the newest reader of my blog, JP.
back then, knowing myself beloved, exuberant in your presence, I was the flowering tree: daily transforming, girl-child to tree, careless of blossoms, daily unleafed, daily budding, lavish with words, immoderate in joy, a willing daphne, bride of the king's son.
Monday, January 28, 2008
banana bread
To combat the blues of starting school TOMORROW at 9am, and the blues of having to write a paper before then, (why oh why do I procrastinate until the very last minute?!) I instead, decided to bake banana bread after attending a wine and cheese party with great great food, great Clare Valley wine from Australia, great Stiltons and Roqueforts, great asparagus steamed with olive oil, great apricot and almond tart, great blueberries, walnuts and goats cheese. Totally stuffed at around 7pm, instead of dinner, the house decided to bake trader joe's banana bread ($1.99, what's up sister!!!) and now, an hour later, halfway through, I'm blissed out and panicking simultaneously. I wonder if my strategy of taking time off this semester is really going to materialize. Well one can hope, one can dream! Here is a tried and tested banana bread recipe from CNS
ripe bananas
walnuts
dessicated coconut
some flour, eggs, muscovado sugar and olive oil
bake and eat.
ripe bananas
walnuts
dessicated coconut
some flour, eggs, muscovado sugar and olive oil
bake and eat.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
glass
Back to beantown after a lovely interlude in Asheville and then New York where it seems more than likely I will end up post graduation, quite clueless though. The train back sped through Connecticut and Rhode Island, places where some memories of youth and a summer still remain. Back in Beantown, I was too tired to do anything but watch nonstop House. Saturday dawned bright and early and I spring cleaned, did loads of laundry, mopped the floors, went over to a new bride's house to carpet the bed with rose petals before her arrival, more grocery shopping at Whole Foods and Trader Joe's, Blockbuster, came back, talked on the phone, made molten lava cake (alas, out of a mix), and spaghetti with beef, tomatoes, peppers and an entire red onion coz I'm that kind of gal, and goat's cheese and now its only 6pm and onto the last paper I have to write before back to watching House, Superbad and The Crying Game. Oh yes and I broke the bottle of pasta sauce inside the bag, scooped up the remainder into a bowl, and cooked the beef with it, not realizing there were glass shards in it, which I am now discovering while I eat. A few have escaped.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
carolina girl
to a lovely carolina girl, who took me in, showed me her birthplace, welcomed me in her family, opened her heart, and got married to another wonderful (of all things), Australian yesterday at a beautiful intimate ceremony with a female pastor, the crackle of a a real fireplace, and snow on the pines outside. From shopping to her wedding dress, to helping her make the final selection on the ring, and even (!) tying a sari for the night itself for myself, and reading I carry your heart at the ceremony, this is to the pottster!
Monday, January 14, 2008
The Light on The Hill
"We have a great objective - the light on the hill - which we aim to reach by working the betterment of mankind not only here but anywhere we may give a helping hand. If it were not for that, the Labour movement would not be worth fighting for.
If the movement can make someone more comfortable, give to some father or mother a greater feeling of security for their children, a feeling that if a depression comes there will be work, that the government is striving its hardest to do its best, then the Labour movement will be completely justified. "
The above is an excerpt from the 1949 speech by Australian Prime Minister Ben Chifley and is regarded as one the seminal moments in Australian politics. (it IS australian politics after all). An otherwise unremarkable phraseology, but notable because it is going to be quoted in a good friend's wedding ceremony, as a couple's joint identification with the best of the spirit of service.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
middle east peace crisis
Its a Saturday morning. Woke up at 4am to write a strategy memo, a journal memo and then head to a breakfast meeting at 7am where I met a wonderful individual who is among many things, a renowned journalist, a law professor, a managing partner at a venture philanthropy firm, a chairman of the board of several nonprofits, a White House Fellow, Supreme Court justice clerk. A fascinating meeting on the negotiations on the Cuban Missile Crisis and the energy crisis of the 70s ensued. Then a full day of negotiations workshops ensued, with us simulating a Middle East oil crisis. We are in the 12th hour of negotiations and it has been incredibly frustrating...
Monday, January 07, 2008
tyger
On reflection 2007 was an okay year, but not a vintage year. I don't know what the prognosis for 2008 is, but it seems a little scary.
So I went and bought a cactus. Despite my best efforts, I am sure it will survive.
And then, there is this from Salman Rushdie: "Writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things – childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves – that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.”
Finally, why does every Economist article about the LTTE quote Blake?
The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794
So I went and bought a cactus. Despite my best efforts, I am sure it will survive.
And then, there is this from Salman Rushdie: "Writing is as close as we get to keeping a hold on the thousand and one things – childhood, certainties, cities, doubts, dreams, instants, phrases, parents, loves – that go on slipping, like sand, through our fingers.”
Finally, why does every Economist article about the LTTE quote Blake?
The Tyger
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794
back in beantown
Back in boston after a gruelling 30 hour journey. Why is the east coast so far away from Asia?Things of note: of course theheadlines in Frankfurt, Singapore and the US was the Obama win in Iowa, and what looks like a New Hampshire win, after which he'll be unstoppable to the primaries. I've always been hesitant about endorsing Obama, because it seems so unlikely but that is not reason enough. An email I wrote six months ago when I had the chance to meet him for an all-too-brief but incandescent second, says this: This man will be president, I just don't know when.
On another note, my family and I met a budding author with a book to be published in April 2008, called Love Marriage about diaspora Lankan tamils. I will wait for the book to write comments.
Was met at the airport by C who had received Cold Comfort Farm from me for his birthday and was still laughing a week later to the irritation of his spouse. Its always good to have friends. Crashed into bed after such such travel, (excerpt from nytimes.com on skymall: " Also, you will find the SKYMALL CATALOG, from which you may order a product called “Poop Freeze,” described as a spray refrigerant that “chills animal waste to -62°F, creating an outer ‘crust’ that enables you to quickly place in a bag and dispose.” Feel free to spend the remainder of the flight trying to process this information.). It was however mitigated by Singapore Airlines, in homage to racial harmony screened marudhamalai an absolutely abysmal Tamil film saved only by starring arjun. (At moments like this, I am hugely impressed with Singapore politics).
Woke up this morning at 630am, spent a few hours jobless, chatting on the phone. Then went to the supermarket for some MAJOR shopping. A 166 dollars later, I was cooking black bean chicken with sugarsnap peas and green peppers, lemon roasted beans, red onions with walnuts and jasmine rice. Opened a bottle of bordeaux, promptly downed a glass, chomped away watching A Preacher's Wife and now I am heading to bed and its only 2pm. Still have a infrastructure paper to write on British Water, and a memo for class tomorrow, but slowly slowly does it. Oh bed!!
On another note, my family and I met a budding author with a book to be published in April 2008, called Love Marriage about diaspora Lankan tamils. I will wait for the book to write comments.
Was met at the airport by C who had received Cold Comfort Farm from me for his birthday and was still laughing a week later to the irritation of his spouse. Its always good to have friends. Crashed into bed after such such travel, (excerpt from nytimes.com on skymall: " Also, you will find the SKYMALL CATALOG, from which you may order a product called “Poop Freeze,” described as a spray refrigerant that “chills animal waste to -62°F, creating an outer ‘crust’ that enables you to quickly place in a bag and dispose.” Feel free to spend the remainder of the flight trying to process this information.). It was however mitigated by Singapore Airlines, in homage to racial harmony screened marudhamalai an absolutely abysmal Tamil film saved only by starring arjun. (At moments like this, I am hugely impressed with Singapore politics).
Woke up this morning at 630am, spent a few hours jobless, chatting on the phone. Then went to the supermarket for some MAJOR shopping. A 166 dollars later, I was cooking black bean chicken with sugarsnap peas and green peppers, lemon roasted beans, red onions with walnuts and jasmine rice. Opened a bottle of bordeaux, promptly downed a glass, chomped away watching A Preacher's Wife and now I am heading to bed and its only 2pm. Still have a infrastructure paper to write on British Water, and a memo for class tomorrow, but slowly slowly does it. Oh bed!!
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Live Life
On this eve of another end to a semester, I am reminded of what happened exactly a year ago, in one particular class, in its last lecture. All are direct quotes
There are three conceptions of an "economist" self.
a) The Developing Country is my White Man's Burden (i am solving their poverty)
b) I am a Greek/Arthurian hero: A Dragon Slayer (slaying poverty)
c) I am a Nietzchean Hero: Self-Expression (solving poverty is about me)
whatever it is, I cannot be your therapist. But here it is; make your mark. Leave a Legacy. And live life as an epic adventure.
There are three conceptions of an "economist" self.
a) The Developing Country is my White Man's Burden (i am solving their poverty)
b) I am a Greek/Arthurian hero: A Dragon Slayer (slaying poverty)
c) I am a Nietzchean Hero: Self-Expression (solving poverty is about me)
whatever it is, I cannot be your therapist. But here it is; make your mark. Leave a Legacy. And live life as an epic adventure.
Monday, December 10, 2007
paralysis
A Call to Action for all friends and and even former acquaintances:
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MY LIFE.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Business School vs. Policy School
A Day In The Life Of
A Business School Student (quotes taken from the business school website)
5:40am: Alarm goes off. I quickly debate whether I should call my trainer, Joe at Shad Gym and tell him I can't make it.
8:39:50am- The doors close, silence falls, and class begins at 8:40am on the dot
10:00am: I go to the gift store (the Coop) to see if they have screen protectors for my new high tech cell phone
11:40am: I feel actual angst over whether to join the sushi or the pasta line. Oh the decisions we MBA students must make!
1:00pm: Yay! Its a two case day, which means naptime. Sleep is precious!
3:00pm: Back in my cosy corner room, I check email- no urgent communication with potential employers. I will try to get through the LCA ase before 4pm when Tony Robbins speaks in Burden.
4:00pm: Like the Swiss Railway system, the Tony Robbins presentation starts on time. Before I know it, he has us hugging, jumping, yelling and cheering. An hour well spent.
7:30pm: I head across campus and reach the Grille at Spangler within three minutes. The food is great! Jenny, one of the friendly chefs, humourously greets me in Chinese and prepares my usual meal.
8:50pm: It has been a full day. I shower and look over my notes for tomorrow.
A Public Policy School Student (taken from anecdotal and personal experience)
5:40am: Go to sleep. Wake up five minutes later after a nightmare about a monstrous p value and thank god I have three more hours of sleep. What's Shad?
8:39:50am: I conduct a cost benefit analysis of waking up and conclude costs outweigh benefits.
10:15am: Slide into seat, five minutes late for class. Wince in pain upon remembering that I didn't do the reading on detainee interrogation in Guantanamo bay today. Open Facebook. Raise hand in class to talk about how a democracy cannot support capital punishment instead.
11:40am: Consider buying lunch, but remember I'm broke. Instead I hover near the table outside Executive Education classroom, trying to pounce on pastries and fruit when no one is looking.
1:00pm: Spend ten extra minutes getting to class because of traffic jam on Littauer Steps. Democratic Caucus students and Republican Caucus students are going at it on Huckabee. Stop by cafeteria anyway due to excess acid from excess coffee. Dry Chicken Wrap or Wet Chicken Salad Wrap? Dry.
3:00pm: Back in my cozy Forum couch, I check email. No communication with potential employers. I will try to get through my first reading of the day before 4pm when some motivational speaker guy talks about stuff across the river. Free coffee there.
4:00pm. Like Amtrak, I show up 20 minutes late to the speaker as my cheap shoes can't handle the ice, only to realize that I would rather shoot myself in the head than work in the private sector.
7:30pm. I read some blogs. Then I start a response paper due at 9pm on human rights in Iraq.
8:50pm: Start reading 200 pages and plot downfall of nemeses before heading to the computer lab to print out work. Thwarted by a group of ping pong enthusiasts in Taubman. End up at 11pm in Tommy Doyle's after the the third cost benefit analysis of the day leads me to join in.
A Business School Student (quotes taken from the business school website)
5:40am: Alarm goes off. I quickly debate whether I should call my trainer, Joe at Shad Gym and tell him I can't make it.
8:39:50am- The doors close, silence falls, and class begins at 8:40am on the dot
10:00am: I go to the gift store (the Coop) to see if they have screen protectors for my new high tech cell phone
11:40am: I feel actual angst over whether to join the sushi or the pasta line. Oh the decisions we MBA students must make!
1:00pm: Yay! Its a two case day, which means naptime. Sleep is precious!
3:00pm: Back in my cosy corner room, I check email- no urgent communication with potential employers. I will try to get through the LCA ase before 4pm when Tony Robbins speaks in Burden.
4:00pm: Like the Swiss Railway system, the Tony Robbins presentation starts on time. Before I know it, he has us hugging, jumping, yelling and cheering. An hour well spent.
7:30pm: I head across campus and reach the Grille at Spangler within three minutes. The food is great! Jenny, one of the friendly chefs, humourously greets me in Chinese and prepares my usual meal.
8:50pm: It has been a full day. I shower and look over my notes for tomorrow.
A Public Policy School Student (taken from anecdotal and personal experience)
5:40am: Go to sleep. Wake up five minutes later after a nightmare about a monstrous p value and thank god I have three more hours of sleep. What's Shad?
8:39:50am: I conduct a cost benefit analysis of waking up and conclude costs outweigh benefits.
10:15am: Slide into seat, five minutes late for class. Wince in pain upon remembering that I didn't do the reading on detainee interrogation in Guantanamo bay today. Open Facebook. Raise hand in class to talk about how a democracy cannot support capital punishment instead.
11:40am: Consider buying lunch, but remember I'm broke. Instead I hover near the table outside Executive Education classroom, trying to pounce on pastries and fruit when no one is looking.
1:00pm: Spend ten extra minutes getting to class because of traffic jam on Littauer Steps. Democratic Caucus students and Republican Caucus students are going at it on Huckabee. Stop by cafeteria anyway due to excess acid from excess coffee. Dry Chicken Wrap or Wet Chicken Salad Wrap? Dry.
3:00pm: Back in my cozy Forum couch, I check email. No communication with potential employers. I will try to get through my first reading of the day before 4pm when some motivational speaker guy talks about stuff across the river. Free coffee there.
4:00pm. Like Amtrak, I show up 20 minutes late to the speaker as my cheap shoes can't handle the ice, only to realize that I would rather shoot myself in the head than work in the private sector.
7:30pm. I read some blogs. Then I start a response paper due at 9pm on human rights in Iraq.
8:50pm: Start reading 200 pages and plot downfall of nemeses before heading to the computer lab to print out work. Thwarted by a group of ping pong enthusiasts in Taubman. End up at 11pm in Tommy Doyle's after the the third cost benefit analysis of the day leads me to join in.
May we
live in interesting times.
I think I can safely say that there have been ups, there have been downs, but there's never been steady and that I have always lived, in interesting times.
More interaction with men who call me ma'am (in an 'un-old' way).
The question was posed today: What would you do if you have 2 million dollars to spend in New Orleans post-Katrina? Would it go to housing, or charter schools, or primary care for the uninsured, or at-risk youth programs, or job regeneration programs, or small business incubation?
My answer: I would spend 2 million dollars, finding out what the people of New Orleans wanted, from top to bottom, across racial lines and across class lines. Not what we think they need, but what their demand is, which is entirely different. Then I would see where those demands are aligned, and then I would be able to map potential coalitions and get a consensus around a plan of recovery, and especially from getting some of that 180 billion dollars assigned to Gulf Coast recovery.
On another note, more talking about fantasy/extremist ideology: The heart has been fed on fantasies, the heart has grown brutal from its fare. Its so dangerous and so compelling to accept some kind of all or nothing in life.
And the last note: I have made a major discovery about myself: I would be rather happy than be accomplished.
I think I can safely say that there have been ups, there have been downs, but there's never been steady and that I have always lived, in interesting times.
More interaction with men who call me ma'am (in an 'un-old' way).
The question was posed today: What would you do if you have 2 million dollars to spend in New Orleans post-Katrina? Would it go to housing, or charter schools, or primary care for the uninsured, or at-risk youth programs, or job regeneration programs, or small business incubation?
My answer: I would spend 2 million dollars, finding out what the people of New Orleans wanted, from top to bottom, across racial lines and across class lines. Not what we think they need, but what their demand is, which is entirely different. Then I would see where those demands are aligned, and then I would be able to map potential coalitions and get a consensus around a plan of recovery, and especially from getting some of that 180 billion dollars assigned to Gulf Coast recovery.
On another note, more talking about fantasy/extremist ideology: The heart has been fed on fantasies, the heart has grown brutal from its fare. Its so dangerous and so compelling to accept some kind of all or nothing in life.
And the last note: I have made a major discovery about myself: I would be rather happy than be accomplished.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
hubris
my fatal flaw is I am a sucker for men who can reproduce dialogue like this in email banter/verbal conversation/non-verbal cues.
Jules: And what's Fonzie like? Come on, Yolanda! What's Fonzie like?
Yolanda: Cool?
Jules: What?
Yolanda: He's cool
Jules: Correctamundo! And that's what we're gonna be. We're gonna be cool.
Pulp Fiction
And ma'am. I'm a sucker for any man who calls me "ma'am". As in "Yes, ma'am".
Jules: And what's Fonzie like? Come on, Yolanda! What's Fonzie like?
Yolanda: Cool?
Jules: What?
Yolanda: He's cool
Jules: Correctamundo! And that's what we're gonna be. We're gonna be cool.
Pulp Fiction
And ma'am. I'm a sucker for any man who calls me "ma'am". As in "Yes, ma'am".
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
minus 8 degrees celsius
I am officially gloved, booted, mufflered, hatted, pouffy-coated and jobless.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
bachelorette
Let me say that, having seen a male stripper now, taking everything off, that it just was not appealing in any way. On a second note, bachelorette parties down South are an entirely different event from the tamer "hen" parties of England and elsewhere. There was nothing remotely "hennish" about this one, replete with bridal veils, tiaras, sashes and sceptres and a whole lotta alcohol, pole dancing and a mechanical bull (don't even ask). And not to mention the private stripper. A whole new educational frontier was busted. I, in true fashion, was hovering near the bathroom, ready to lock myself in should this person even come 1 metre near my vicinity. Oh dear.
On the other note, I am absolutely beat and it is the weariness that sleep just isn't going to solve and one which needs 2-3 weeks in a coma. Thank god that is only ten days away for I really have reached the end of my tether.
NB. Should any of my friends organize a stripper for me in any occasion, I will suffer permanent trauma.
On the other note, I am absolutely beat and it is the weariness that sleep just isn't going to solve and one which needs 2-3 weeks in a coma. Thank god that is only ten days away for I really have reached the end of my tether.
NB. Should any of my friends organize a stripper for me in any occasion, I will suffer permanent trauma.
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