A Week's Update
Oct. 4th, 2003 05:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rfmcdonald(Apologies for the lateness, and the size. ResNet has been down since Wednesday, and isn't yet up.)
Tuesday evening was benign enough. My cold was bad, but thankfully it passed; at least it passed enough to allow me to seriously cosnider going out. Plan A was to attend the business etiquette dinner that I had mentioned earlier; Plan B was to attend, with a friend after a cafeteria supper, a speech given by Ché Guevara's daughter in Kingston, partly on the matter of Cubans being held by the American government (allegedly for terrorism, allegedly to prevent Cuban-American terrorism). In order to take part in Plan A, though, I needed my suit, conveniently mailed from home the previous Friday. Its Monday ETA passed, however, because of the recent spectacular hurricane. Fortunately, it had arrived at West Campus at 5 o'clock, just eough time for me to get suitably dressed up, take a taxi down to the Queen's University Club, and attend. The dinner was decent, and I got to walk back to West Campus.
Wednesday was difficult, not least because it was the first day that ResNet went down, and because my cold deteriorated. Still, I finally made the decision to go and get doped up on Sudafed. Moreover, my chess game made a notable stride when that day I won the below game:
Date: 1/10/2003
White: Randy McDonald
Black: Randy McDonald
Opening: A00 Van't Kruijs Opening
1. e3 c5 2. b3 d6 3. Ba3 e5 4. Nf3 Be7 5. Be2 Nf6 6. O-O Bf5 7. Nc3 O-O 8. Rb1 Nc6 9. Bc1 Na5 10. a3 Rc8 11. Bb5 a6 12. Be2 b5 13. Bd3 c4 14. bxc4 bxc4 15. Bxf5 Rb8 16. Ra1 Qc7 17. a4 Rb7 18. Ba3 Rfb8 19. Qe2 Qc6 20. Rfc1 e4 21. Ne1 Bd8 22. Qf1 Bc7 23. f3 exf3 24. Nxf3 d5 25. Qf2 Qd6 26. Rf1 d4 27. Ne2 d3 28. Bxd6 Bxd6 29. cxd3 cxd3 30. Ra3 dxe2 31. Qxe2 Rb5 32. Rd3 Ne8 33. Rxd6 Nxd6 34. Bd3 Nc6 35. Bxb5 Nxb5 36. d3 Nc3 37. Qc2 Nxa4 38. Qxa4 Ne7 39. Ne5 Ra8 40. Qb4 a5 41. Qxe7 a4 42. Qd6 a3 43. Qc6 Ra7 44. Qe8#
1-0
Thursday passed nicely. The afternoon coffee for graduate students went very well, with rather fewer flaws than last time; all that remains to be done is to print up a poster or two. I like getting reimbursed for making (and consuming) vast amounts of coffee, I really do. The morning class was interesting, though, since that was the literary theory class when we discussed the views of Barthes and Foucault on the author (as distinct from writer; as a central entity in literary criticism; as a chimera produced by the reified work). To go back into my notes:
This did raise a raises a question, perhaps, as to why I continue to write in my livejournal (as I said in one of my first postings) with the expectations of leaving some sort of reliable electronic spoor of my personality. Perhaps the easiest answer is to say that by no means did Barthes exclude the Author from having a role in the analysis of a text, if not necessarily a dominant one. Besides, as much as this text is but one of an infinity secreted in Borges' infinite library, it was produced by my tapping of keys. That has to count for something.
Did I mention that I voted in the Ontario elections? (For the NDP candidate, actually; I was confident that the Liberal incumbent would be reelected, and the NDP candidate seemed pleasant enough. Alas, no patronage or promises thereof to secure my vote; part of the problems of living in a politically primitive society, I suppose.) I was passing by the elections kiosks in the main building on my way to check my snail-mail mailbox when I was accosted. I explained that I got here only on the 30th of August, but that didn't seem to matter; I was quickly signed up, and I cast my vote. That was pleasant--at last I've gotten the chance to vote in an election which can determine the fate of the country!
Friday was initially uneventful. I met with a new friend for coffee, talking about music and passing over some mp3s (unattainable Eurythmics and Garbage B-sides, for the main, I hasten to add), in the morning; I then went shopping, picking up some new button-up shirts at the S&R department store downtown at more than decent prices and then buying some beer and wine from the LCBO. I caught up on work, then a party (a birthday party for two people, a theme party organized around dirty construction workers and naughty school girls). Today, a chili party, then reading and more work.
One thing I'm very pleased to find out, living here in Kingston as a graduate student, is how easy things have been. I need to stretch somewhat, and I will--when I begin dating, when I become a TA grading papers, when I engage in presentations. I have the confidence, though, that I can stretch to do all those things and more. (I've found out, for instance, that one of the two other people TAing Contemporary Literature has been reassigned, meaning I'll have to check the full workload of 46 papers, not 31 as was initially planned. That I'm not horrified could be placed either to my sanguinity or to my ignorance.)
Regardless, it's a very nice feeling. It's perhaps the first time I can remember feeling this way as an adult. This bodes well, I hope.
Tuesday evening was benign enough. My cold was bad, but thankfully it passed; at least it passed enough to allow me to seriously cosnider going out. Plan A was to attend the business etiquette dinner that I had mentioned earlier; Plan B was to attend, with a friend after a cafeteria supper, a speech given by Ché Guevara's daughter in Kingston, partly on the matter of Cubans being held by the American government (allegedly for terrorism, allegedly to prevent Cuban-American terrorism). In order to take part in Plan A, though, I needed my suit, conveniently mailed from home the previous Friday. Its Monday ETA passed, however, because of the recent spectacular hurricane. Fortunately, it had arrived at West Campus at 5 o'clock, just eough time for me to get suitably dressed up, take a taxi down to the Queen's University Club, and attend. The dinner was decent, and I got to walk back to West Campus.
Wednesday was difficult, not least because it was the first day that ResNet went down, and because my cold deteriorated. Still, I finally made the decision to go and get doped up on Sudafed. Moreover, my chess game made a notable stride when that day I won the below game:
Date: 1/10/2003
White: Randy McDonald
Black: Randy McDonald
Opening: A00 Van't Kruijs Opening
1. e3 c5 2. b3 d6 3. Ba3 e5 4. Nf3 Be7 5. Be2 Nf6 6. O-O Bf5 7. Nc3 O-O 8. Rb1 Nc6 9. Bc1 Na5 10. a3 Rc8 11. Bb5 a6 12. Be2 b5 13. Bd3 c4 14. bxc4 bxc4 15. Bxf5 Rb8 16. Ra1 Qc7 17. a4 Rb7 18. Ba3 Rfb8 19. Qe2 Qc6 20. Rfc1 e4 21. Ne1 Bd8 22. Qf1 Bc7 23. f3 exf3 24. Nxf3 d5 25. Qf2 Qd6 26. Rf1 d4 27. Ne2 d3 28. Bxd6 Bxd6 29. cxd3 cxd3 30. Ra3 dxe2 31. Qxe2 Rb5 32. Rd3 Ne8 33. Rxd6 Nxd6 34. Bd3 Nc6 35. Bxb5 Nxb5 36. d3 Nc3 37. Qc2 Nxa4 38. Qxa4 Ne7 39. Ne5 Ra8 40. Qb4 a5 41. Qxe7 a4 42. Qd6 a3 43. Qc6 Ra7 44. Qe8#
1-0
Thursday passed nicely. The afternoon coffee for graduate students went very well, with rather fewer flaws than last time; all that remains to be done is to print up a poster or two. I like getting reimbursed for making (and consuming) vast amounts of coffee, I really do. The morning class was interesting, though, since that was the literary theory class when we discussed the views of Barthes and Foucault on the author (as distinct from writer; as a central entity in literary criticism; as a chimera produced by the reified work). To go back into my notes:
When Barthes says that the author is dead, what he means is that the text should be detached from the author. He agrees with Saussure that language is an arbitrary product of a social contract; the death of the author therefore gives birth to the reader and subjectivity, since removing the author as a dominant source of the text leaves only the signified. The author becomes a vehicle for the projection of social codes into text; the author becomes a vehicle, not an autonomous actor. In turn, the reader must surrender all potential subjectivities, and play with the text as with a game. Texts are created by the act of reading and interpreting, by the liberation of symbolic meaning and a writing where all is possible, where the signifier is again deferred; it is here that Barthes becomes post-structuralist.
Once the Author is removed, the claim to decipher a text becomes quite futile. To give a text an Author is to impose a limit on that text, to furnish it with a final signified, to close the writing. Such a conception suits criticism very well, the latter then allotting itself the important task of discovering the Author (or its hypostases: society, history, psyche, liberty) beneath the work: when the Author has been found, the text is ‘explained'--victory to the critic. Hence there is no surprise in the fact that, historically, the reign of the Author has also been that of the Critic, nor again in the fact that criticism (be it new) is today undermined along with the Author. In the multiplicity of writing, everything is to be disentangled, nothing deciphered; the structure can be followed, ‘run' (like the thread of a stocking) at every point and at every level, but there is nothing beneath: the space of writing is to be ranged over, not pierced; writing ceaselessly posits meaning ceaselessly to evaporate it, carrying out a systematic exemption of meaning (Norton 1469).
This did raise a raises a question, perhaps, as to why I continue to write in my livejournal (as I said in one of my first postings) with the expectations of leaving some sort of reliable electronic spoor of my personality. Perhaps the easiest answer is to say that by no means did Barthes exclude the Author from having a role in the analysis of a text, if not necessarily a dominant one. Besides, as much as this text is but one of an infinity secreted in Borges' infinite library, it was produced by my tapping of keys. That has to count for something.
Did I mention that I voted in the Ontario elections? (For the NDP candidate, actually; I was confident that the Liberal incumbent would be reelected, and the NDP candidate seemed pleasant enough. Alas, no patronage or promises thereof to secure my vote; part of the problems of living in a politically primitive society, I suppose.) I was passing by the elections kiosks in the main building on my way to check my snail-mail mailbox when I was accosted. I explained that I got here only on the 30th of August, but that didn't seem to matter; I was quickly signed up, and I cast my vote. That was pleasant--at last I've gotten the chance to vote in an election which can determine the fate of the country!
Friday was initially uneventful. I met with a new friend for coffee, talking about music and passing over some mp3s (unattainable Eurythmics and Garbage B-sides, for the main, I hasten to add), in the morning; I then went shopping, picking up some new button-up shirts at the S&R department store downtown at more than decent prices and then buying some beer and wine from the LCBO. I caught up on work, then a party (a birthday party for two people, a theme party organized around dirty construction workers and naughty school girls). Today, a chili party, then reading and more work.
One thing I'm very pleased to find out, living here in Kingston as a graduate student, is how easy things have been. I need to stretch somewhat, and I will--when I begin dating, when I become a TA grading papers, when I engage in presentations. I have the confidence, though, that I can stretch to do all those things and more. (I've found out, for instance, that one of the two other people TAing Contemporary Literature has been reassigned, meaning I'll have to check the full workload of 46 papers, not 31 as was initially planned. That I'm not horrified could be placed either to my sanguinity or to my ignorance.)
Regardless, it's a very nice feeling. It's perhaps the first time I can remember feeling this way as an adult. This bodes well, I hope.
