radfrac_archive_full: (Harold Ross of the New Yorker)
The talk is DONE.

Would that I could say it were done well. It was all right. I think that's the best that can be said for it. I don't think I connected with them. I felt like they were expecting what I had to say and it wasn't interesting.

The prof is right; you can see everything from up front. It's vile. A semicircle of bowed heads and bored expressions. I just couldn't get them. The one really engaged guy left early to see Madama Butterfly, or I think I might have been able to scrape some reciprocal energy out of him at least. And the sole person I know from outside wasn't there.

When you're projecting and emoting and no one's responding it's like they walked in on you talking to your mirror. You feel stupid instead of exciting.

I will have to give up this idea of being better than other people at things.


Not that I'm competitive.

I know it was part of the problem. Wanting to be the Best One. And I wasn't, and I was only the second speaker. He was much more engaging than I (was).

Howwwever. It is good practise. The debate about the article at the end was the best part. I think I at least held some good ground there. I really didn't let go even though the prof and I were in a pretty intense ideological struggle over gender position.

That bit was quite fun really. I will perhaps post about it.

radfrac_archive_full: (bat signifier)
I notice that I'm becoming more easily frustrated than usual when testing survey patterns, which I usually enjoy. The last couple of surveys have seemed to have persnickety skip patterns (that's the seuqence of pages you do or don't see depending on the answers you give.) I think this might be because of the experience of reading theory, in which the usually fluent experience of reading is constantly balked in the struggle for comprehension.

It is easy to find podcasts discussing classical music, but surprisingly difficult to find podcasts of the music itself. Copyright over the recordings I suppose.

I found a podcast about Berio's Sinfonia and felt absurdly sentimental. That was one of those works of art I thought must be the Answer to that unformed question of the human heart, when I was nineteen.

radfrac_archive_full: (Default)
So Monday last.

I studied for a month leading up to the advising session with the grad studies advisor. I wanted to make it clear that I could do this work. I borrowed a heap of theory from Bee and [livejournal.com profile] stitchinmyside, much of which I have still not got through. I was working a lot of overtime through June, reducing my study time, which I found frustrating; but I did get some fairly key texts read -- key circa 1997, when everyone *else* did this, anyway.

On Monday before the consult, I sat down and wrote out my justification for my proposed eventual thesis topic. I wrote out my justification for my wildly uneven transcript. I brushed and flossed and shaved and wore Long Pants. I packed some essays *just in case* he wanted a writing sample, though I knew dimly that this was unlikely.

I arrived at the prof's office to find him working on a giant crossword puzzle poster in the hallway. He invited me into his office. He took my transcript from my treembling hand.

"You need a Shakespeare, a Victorian lit, a 20th Century survey, and a theory course."

"Anything else?"

"Not really."

And there you are.

My reactions:

1. But that's so straightforward.
2. What kind of standards do you people have, anyway? This isn't nearly elitist enough.
3. Don't you want to read my thesis?

I was too startled to say much of anything, however. I felt afterwards I should have tried harder to make an Impression, but unless my rakish, knowing smile charmed him, I fear he is as the untouched clay as far as the subject of Me is concerned.

I did find out that I'd done exactly the wrong thing in my statement of intent last time I applied, which: good to know.

The sweet in this is that he seems to be fairly upbeat about the idea of my getting into graduate school -- not on this round, but the next. He said (in the six other minutes of conversation) that if I applied this year, I would probably not get in because I wouldn't have finished the theory course, but that I would probably be asked to do a qualifying year and reapply the next year. So, he proposed, save the money this year and apply next year.

I have to get very good grades, you understand, but that seems like a much lesser problem.

Since I was unable to present my thesis to him, I thought perhaps you might like to read it.

Things I would have said if he had asked me: general thoughts on science fiction and transgendering )



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