EMU’s First-year Writing Program invites you to join us in Ypsilanti on Friday, March 23, for the 2018 Winter Colloquium. Dr. Melanie Yergeau will present at 10:30 a.m., “Black Mirror Meets the Classroom: Neurodiversity and Social Robots.” After lunch, at 1 p.m., she will lead a writing pedagogy workshop, “Disability, Access, and Multimodal Pedagogies.” For more information, contact Derek Mueller, Dir. of the First-year Writing Program, at email@example.com, or Rachel Gramer, Associate Dir. of the First-year Writing Program, at firstname.lastname@example.org.
First batch of tempeh went surprisingly well, a 50-50 blend of mung beans and hulled soy beans, 1 cup of each when dry, then softened, dried, mixed with 2 tbsp white vinegar and starter envelope. Thirty-six hours later, a nicely held-together block, nutty and light, suited to a stir fry, enough motivation for a second batch. Second batch was black beans, a one pound bag, soaked overnight, softened by low boil, then drained and dried. White vinegar and another starter envelope. Again, in the folding proofer, positive results in about 36 hours.
With the second batch, I’ve followed instructions here toward sporulating a sliver of tempeh. I cut a candy bar sized chunk from the rhizome-colony, set it back in the proofer, 88F, inside a bowl covered with cellophane. Twenty-four hours later, it’s showing all the new-growth signs of sporulating. Maybe another 24 hours before I’ll remove it from the bowl, set it in the proofing box to dry (for what, maybe 36 hours?), then cube it, blend it to powder, and mix with a tablespoon of rice flour. With this, another new attempt, lentils or chickpeas or a mix of the two.
Car radio piped this one, 107.1 airwaves, return route Ford Road to Prospect from Sunday big box outing, groceries flying into the cart (fermenteds, quick oats, coffee) and then a four-carts-piled backup at checkout lines, but back to the song: some covers are the friendliest ghosts. A little bit of warming nostalgia, so sick!, Billie Jean, estranged memoriachords, soft glow in the January’s-fine-with-me-since-none-of-it-lasts-long grayscape. Right-timed to go with an equanimity wish, one I almost but then didn’t ask for social media send-up but then nah. Just nah. But back to the grocery shopping: bumped a buggy excuse me and a stranger standing nearby said “That’s how I drive my mini-van.”
Back into the quietude at that hue between the sky’s #EAEAEA and the earth’s #F2F2F2, chicory-peppermint tea with cinnamon stick, teaching preparation and upcoming talk tuning, difficult yoga on the floor in the round.
Another from Jeff Vandermeer’s Annihilation, what somewhere has been called series whose figments bear strange shadowforms of H. P. Lovecraft:
“Should we go back?” the surveyor would say, or I would say.
And the other would say, “Just around the next corner. Just a little farther, and then we will go back.” It was a test of fragile trust. It was a test of our curiosity and fascination, which walked side by side with our fear. A test of whether we preferred to be ignorant or unsafe. The feel of our boots as we advanced step by careful step through that viscous discharge, the way in which the stickiness seemed to mire us even when we managed to keep moving, would eventually end in inertia, we knew. If we pushed it too far.
But then the surveyor rounded a corner ahead of me and recoiled into me, shoved me back up the steps, and I let her. (58-59)
Dog-eared, a page and its few lines I at first associated with initiates, treacherous descent, down a squish stairwell, footfalls better lace up your boots. But the shambles memory cast as “I would say” or “the other would say,” a whatever dialogue, both of them knowing forward means down deeper and down deeper means longer back. Or end. End in inertia. And with this it’s not only initiates down a staircase into the unknown below but a tandem pursuit-non-pursuit, a companionable procession whose interruption–please someone shove–they both seemed to be ready for, to welcome when, let’s return, let’s go back up again, it came.
Network Sense: Methods for Visualizing a Discipline released yesterday. The PDF and ePub versions are online at https://wac.colostate.edu/books/network/. Printed copies should be available by mid-late January or thenabouts, I’m told. A few thousand thoughts, a few thousand feelings in finishing such a project as this and seeing it finally stand on its own.
It took years, first as a dissertation. Later as a proposal and redeveloped manuscript. Smoothings through revisions, edits, design, indexing. And there’s fatigue, gratitude, acute awareness of shortcomings, relief. Whatever else of book-affect, it circulates as it does.
I imagine returning to some of its known limitations, taking those as catalysts for some of what’s next, and to puzzling through the indexing process, what I learned from it, nascent ideas in appending a glossary (toooo many terms under-defined, under-elaborated), maybe-or-not an audio version because open access books can bloom any which way they will.
Perhaps my only real expertise, my only talent, is to endure beyond the endurable. (182)
Said the protagonist, a biologist. More context would spoil it. But the line on its own, that and more from Area X sped time during yesterday afternoon’s eternal AT&T internet repair appointment window, only that the technician showed up to hi and bye with “outside lines are not my thing, I’m sorry to tell you.”
I have one more line (and its paragraph) from the novel to share–about initiation, footing, leading steps. Tomorrow. Or in a few months. At this site’s timescale, could be who knows when.
Do your best work, bacteria. And as reward, I will eat you.
This one is a mung bean sprout fermentation attempt. Carrots and kraut turned out well, and the next experiment-attempt is this, set up yesterday for whiffing and tasting in three or four days. It’s a simple packdown of two batches of mung beans sprouted from dry beans for about four days, 1/4 cup times two (that is, in two different sproutsing jars). Read around online to find very little about fermenting sprouts, some suggesting salt massaged beginning, comparable to sauerkraut, others suggesting a simple brine over the top, which is what I did, just after this photo–two tablespoons of kosher salt (just a fuzz less, actually) into a quart of water to heat and dissolve, cool a little bit and then pour over. Two pulls of the de-oxygenating pump to extract air. In the morning, liquid had expanded to overflowing the lid, but otherwise they’re on their way to what I hope will be sourbliss and nothing rotten or funky or toxic.
Less than an hour before setting foot into Pray-Harrold 414, a section of WRTG120: Composition I (still with the Roman numerals? Really?) I’m teaching this fall, the first first-year students I’ll have had in class in five years, three years since I’ve taught undergraduates in class, walkcrawling the WPA walkcrawl by teaching the class I prepare others to teach, but more than teaching I’m thinking about Irma’s gnashing waterteeth windteeth at Dominican Republic rn, alternations of calm panic calm panic at knowing Ph.’s being set up in Santo Domingo, uncanny is Brandi Carlile’s The Eye shuffling to iPod airwaves as I showered earlier, though can you really dance in the eye of a hurricane?, no, Brandi Carlile, no, I don’t think so, I think that’s bullshit, but that line about sturdy souls is pretty spot-on anyway, and the skies are blue somewhere upsky, and maybe it’s because I went to college in the nineteen-hundreds, but there is lightness, even a little bit of distracted lightness in considering for a twisted minute the usefulness of this extended version of “Trouble” as a way to talk about on-time attendance expectations with these twenty-five eighteen-year-olds I’m soon to meet, who, if they’re late because they’re dancing in the eye of a hurricane, I hope step in with this much groove.
A couple of reading lists, nine titles ordered and delivered to Halle Library on behalf of the First-year Writing Program, and then another pile, an odd-stack, maybe I’ll get to these this summer and maybe I won’t, read bottom to top and top to bottom, shuffled and reshuffled depending on where I leave a copy, depending on what time I have, depending on mood and disposition and weather and gut bacteria, depending on nothing much at all sometimes.
I am reminded upon posting just the one photo (above) that reading habits run a fickle, snaking course–meandering and irregular, never especially disciplined-seeming except perhaps in their continuing, on-going. Anti-library, nomad-habit, ambivalence, juxtaposition, re-reading, crumb trails, low on fucks or high, intention and purpose or their lacunae, and then add to it finishing up with writing one’s own books, with others or solo, mid-careering, wondering only but so effortfully what’s next and why would this be next but not that. Not the most strenuous May-June ever, litotes.
Implicitly (until now) there is some kind of faint jostling between these stacks, different microlibraries, hints of interest and curiosity washed back by life and distraction, laziness and Netflix, accidental and well-intentioned anti-library, I meant to read you. I really did. I was going to. I was going to read everything.
There’s much missing here, too, another gift, Murakami’s The Strange Library, a couple of books from Ypsilanti Public Library due last night by 11:59 p.m. whose deadline I beat by an hour to renew–a miracle–even though they’re all read, finished, complete, ready for the return slot. Read with greater urgency the books that go back, temporary visitors, ones who would if they could but who cannot stay.