Calligraphy, Vows, Revisions

Friday last: I wake up early. Calligraphy class is not until 10, but Hammer has deputed me--because I live so close to the bookstores, and probably because I have the disposable income--to acquire some books of model characters.

When I arrived at the bookstore, it was about five minutes before opening time at 9. A small crowd was waiting outside the doors--yes, waiting for the bookstore to open at 9 AM. It did, and people poured in. The security guard at the front door was standing at attention with his hand at his cap visor in a crisp salute. Throughout the store, all the employees were standing respectfully in their designated places. For a few minutes, all the escalators went up. Somehow, I found this rather touching. No one looked hung-over or grouchy or dispirited. They all looked neutral and attentive and very still. Perhaps underneath they were grouchy and hung-over, but it didn't show!

I discovered the calligraphy section. It was rather large. There were many different books to choose from. I chose cheap crappy soft-bound ones because it seemed a safe bet. One can always get more expensive ones later, thought I.

I also went into the stationary part of the store to see if they had any of the felt pads that go under your paper to protect the table. They were under the counter so I asked for them. The employee who works in the stationary store--who in general, I should add, I have REALLY disliked up until now because she absolutely refuses to leave a person alone--said as she was getting the felt pieces, I see you in here a lot. Do you live around here? I owned that I did. I wonder if next time I go in she will be willing to leave me alone? Because when it comes to buying office supplies, it's a time-consuming and private process of contemplation for me. I really despise being rushed and prompted.

By the time I got to the class, it was only a few minutes before time. I took a seat by the window at one of the two-person desks, and after a bit Hammer came in and very naturally sat next to me. The class was neat--the professor was lectured for half of it on the history of calligraphy and the proper way to hold a brush. At some point in my life this might have been boring, but it was so closely hooked in to the tradition that I am studying--and the professor did a good job of making it interesting, and had especially lovely blackboard handwriting--that I was quite riveted.

In the second half of the class, we practiced. I liked having the model character books, which I had never used before. They make a huge difference. Hammer was frustrated. It was his first effort. I was not frustrated because I have already accepted that calligraphy is next to impossible, and I might as well strive, not for excellence, but for serene acceptance.

Most of the other students in the class were Koreans who had studied the subject in school and were perhaps looking for easy credits--or who knows what. The professor was a true gentleman, though. He said, "I can tell that some of you have done this before, and some of you are already quite good. Some of you have clearly not done this before, but I can tell that you have really understood what I was saying in my lecture." I thought this was a really tactful and nice thing to say. I can tell that I am going to like this professor.

The time went by quickly and left me in a deeply relaxed state.

I had lunch with Hammer at Farm Garden. He had never been there. Who knows what he eats usually? I could tell he found it expensive and not especially good. I had vegetables, rice, and a breaded fried chicken leg, and I had no complaints. When conversation seemed to flag, I asked Hammer if he knew of anyone who might be willing to help me out with classical Chinese, for pay? He did. He asked me suspicious and penetrating questions, apparently aimed at ascertaining that I wasn't actually looking for a ghost writer, just a tutor. Then he seemed satisfied.

After lunch, he called up one of his buddies. I had sort of meant "sometime soon", but no time like the present I guess. I met the fellow, whose actual name means Pillar. He seemed very sharp, so we negotiated a price. We'll see how it goes!

In the afternoon, I tried to work on the piece of writing I'm trying to get done in time for re-enrollment. Heavy going. I decided it was not possible to revise it to incorporate all my adviser's concerns, and settled on answering them in a separate document. I worked on that all of Friday evening and started in again on Saturday morning, sending it off in time for him to get in on his Friday evening, with apologies that it did not actually amount to a "chapter" per se. His immediate response was back to the brush-off: yeah, I'll read it when I have time.

I interrupt this blog post for a rant, which I will attempt to frame in a positive manner. When/if I am an adviser of a graduate student, I intend to make specific agreements with the graduate student about what he or she should be producing at a given time, by a given time. When we have come to a consensus, and when the grad student does his or her part of the bargain, I will also do my part of the bargain and actually read and give feedback on what the grad student has done. I will NOT abdicate adviserly responsibility by saying, "It's your project, do whatever"--and then refuse to read the "whatever" on the grounds that it doesn't interest me. I think being an adviser is actually a rather big responsibility over someone's life, and should be taken seriously. I am happy to take Adviser's suggestions about what I should be writing at any given time, but he is unwilling or unable to make them...

Probably this is the sort of thing that's easy to rant about from this side of the PhD veil and hard to actually practice, but I vow to do my damnedest if the fates actually do allow me to write a dissertation and graduate.

The one comforting thing my adviser did say, though, was that I should not worry too much about re-enrollment, "Next year will be your writing year," etc.

The rest of Saturday is kind of lost in a fog. I think I did some cleaning, but really not much to report.

On Sunday morning I worshipped in the temple of my healthier indulgences: an extra hour of sleep, tea with milk, talking to Pocket of Bolts and reading one of his papers, long shower, puttering, reading e-mail, moving slowly. Eventually I went into school and had jiaozi, which is a good light lunch, and drinkable yoghurt (suannai) for dessert.

Then I sat in the library and worked on revising the paper I am trying to do in Chinese. Slow going! You'd think that something you wrote yourself, even though it's in a foreign language, would be easy to reread. But actually, no. It's just as hard to read as anything else written in Chinese. I am irritated with myself. In order to do the serious revision of section 3 that my adviser here requested, I had to translate it into English, then move it around. At least I could listen to music while I was doing this.

The library was crowded and full of a muted bustling sound. I realized how spoiled I have been by the holiday quiet there. I was not at all pleased to suddenly having to vie for seats and elbow-room again. Sigh. There's no help for it.