The practical application of Sylvia’s and Valentine’s politics to life in Chaldon sometimes proved difficult. They had hoped to organize a Chaldon Women’s March on the Weld estate office in April to complain about the condition of houses in the village, but the West Chaldon women were in no state to be organized, since they were all at each other’s throats over the goings-on of a local seductress (called, implausibly, Blanche Rocket). Sylvia, who had found eight dead rats in the well, went alone to challenge the Welds with a glass of their contaminated water, though the upshot of this protest is unknown
Claire Harman, Sylvia Townsend Warner: A Biography (148)
nprfreshair
nprfreshair:

Before pursuing stand-up comedy full-time, Hari Kondabolu was a human rights activist. At first telling jokes was a cathartic release from the intense work he did with victims of hate crimes and workplace discrimination. In today’s interview he recounts how he began to incorporate aspects of his work into his comedy: 

"I used to do a bit where I used to read the U.S. citizenship application onstage. I think that’s part of just being overeducated and wanting to do document analysis, but I’d actually bring it on stage and read questions. Because for people who don’t know, this is what immigrants have to go through to gain status in this country and it’s absurd and it’s something we take for granted as American citizens.
Sometimes that was hard in a club on a Friday night and it’s 10 o-clock and everyone’s drunk and there’s a dude on stage reading a form, it’s a strange thing to read a government form in front of a bunch of drunk people.”

Hari’s new comedy album is called Waiting for 2042. 
Photo by Kyle Johnson

nprfreshair:

Before pursuing stand-up comedy full-time, Hari Kondabolu was a human rights activist. At first telling jokes was a cathartic release from the intense work he did with victims of hate crimes and workplace discrimination. In today’s interview he recounts how he began to incorporate aspects of his work into his comedy: 

"I used to do a bit where I used to read the U.S. citizenship application onstage. I think that’s part of just being overeducated and wanting to do document analysis, but I’d actually bring it on stage and read questions. Because for people who don’t know, this is what immigrants have to go through to gain status in this country and it’s absurd and it’s something we take for granted as American citizens.

Sometimes that was hard in a club on a Friday night and it’s 10 o-clock and everyone’s drunk and there’s a dude on stage reading a form, it’s a strange thing to read a government form in front of a bunch of drunk people.”

Hari’s new comedy album is called Waiting for 2042

Photo by Kyle Johnson

The Gods Laughed

Last week was spring break, but it wasn’t much of a vacation. In fact, I spent the second weekend of the break commuting, somewhat frantically, to the ACLA (the American Comparative Literature Association) meeting at NYU. I was frantic because my seminar met at 8:30 AM Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and, those first two days, my husband was out of town at another meeting.

But, I got a ride into the city on Saturday and Sunday and, though I lay awake worrying about logistics, I comforted myself with the thought that I’m not as nuts as Robin Schulte describes herself as being in Overwhelmed, a book I’m reading since I complained of it (being overwhelmed) on facebook. I was even beginning to think that I was doing it. I am scholar-mom, hear me roar!

Then came the seminar. Organized by two of my graduate students—one of whom has moved on to greener pastures—it was a delight. There were twelve papers on neglected women writers and the twelve of us sat there, for two hours every morning, talking about our specific writers and the theory and practice of recovering women. I gave a paper on Gertrude Stein (not forgotten) and Goodnight Moon (also not forgotten), talking about how few people think of Margaret Wise Brown as a writer because she wrote for people who can’t read. Virginia Woolf was hardly mentioned at all. That, in itself was a stunning, magical delight for me.

And, by the end of the conference I felt like I can do this! I can move forward with my writing! My ideas are good! I even let myself think these kind thoughts about myself for a while, let myself feel the possibility and the power.

Then, came Monday. The gods must have heard my burp of confidence, because I had a 2-hour conversation with my general editor at Cambridge about all the things I need to do still before Mrs. Dalloway can move forward. All correct; all good ideas; all smart; all do-able in the next two or three weeks. Not one of them do I want to do; though I will do them all.

That was just the amuse-bouche. On Tuesday, my slow Mac at work became my inaccessible Mac. Instead of checking my email, I was reformatting an external hard drive to make it mac-compatible so I could back up my files so IT could reformat the whole machine. I met with two plagiarists. I got a text from the cleaning lady to say “I”m at your house. Where is the key?” I got a call from my daughter to say that her braces had come loose and there was a wire hanging loose in her mouth. Could I come home and take her to the orthodontist?

I do not, at the moment, feel like I can do it all.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

 

The Gods Laughed

Last week was spring break, but it wasn’t much of a vacation. In fact, I spent the second weekend of the break commuting, somewhat frantically, to the ACLA (the American Comparative Literature Association) meeting at NYU. I was frantic because my seminar met at 8:30 AM Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, and, those first two days, my husband was out of town at another meeting.

But, I got a ride into the city on Saturday and Sunday and, though I lay awake worrying about logistics, I comforted myself with the thought that I’m not as nuts as Robin Schulte describes herself as being in Overwhelmed, a book I’m reading since I complained of it (being overwhelmed) on facebook. I was even beginning to think that I was doing it. I am scholar-mom, hear me roar!

Then came the seminar. Organized by two of my graduate students—one of whom has moved on to greener pastures—it was a delight. There were twelve papers on neglected women writers and the twelve of us sat there, for two hours every morning, talking about our specific writers and the theory and practice of recovering women. I gave a paper on Gertrude Stein (not forgotten) and Goodnight Moon (also not forgotten), talking about how few people think of Margaret Wise Brown as a writer because she wrote for people who can’t read. Virginia Woolf was hardly mentioned at all. That, in itself was a stunning, magical delight for me.

And, by the end of the conference I felt like I can do this! I can move forward with my writing! My ideas are good! I even let myself think these kind thoughts about myself for a while, let myself feel the possibility and the power.

Then, came Monday. The gods must have heard my burp of confidence, because I had a 2-hour conversation with my general editor at Cambridge about all the things I need to do still before Mrs. Dalloway can move forward. All correct; all good ideas; all smart; all do-able in the next two or three weeks. Not one of them do I want to do; though I will do them all.

That was just the amuse-bouche. On Tuesday, my slow Mac at work became my inaccessible Mac. Instead of checking my email, I was reformatting an external hard drive to make it mac-compatible so I could back up my files so I could reformat I met with two plagiarists. I got a text from the cleaning lady to say “I”m at your house. Where is the key?” I got a call from my daughter to say that her braces had come loose and there was a wire hanging loose in her mouth. Could I come home and take her to the orthodontist?

I do not, at the moment, feel like I can do it all.

I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

 

He was meagre and modest and clear-browed, and his eyes, if they wandered without fear, yet stayed without defiance; his shoulders were not broad, his chest was not high, his complexion was not fresh, and the crown of his head was not covered; in spite of all of which he looked, at the top of his table, so nearly like a little boy shyly entertaining in virtue of some imposed rank, that he could only be one of the powers, the representative of a force—quite as an infant king is the representative of a dynasty. —Henry James, The Golden Bowl

“That fall (of 1934), Margaret [Wise Brown] had taken an apartment in Manhattan, which her father had agreed to finance. With the help of a new city friend, Inez Camprubi, she found a small place on MacDougal Street…Inez, a painter, lived in the apartment across the hall. She and Margaret began to spend a good deal of time together, talking about art, Gertrude Stein, and their personal crises and passions of the moment.” (39)
Leonard Marcus, Margaret Wise Brown: Awakened by the Moon.
these things, with an added amplitude of person on which middle age had set its seal, seemed to present her insistently as a daughter of the south, or still more of the east, a creature formed by hammocks and divans, fed upon sherbets and waited upon by slaves. She looked as if her most active effort might be to take up, as she lay back, her mandolin, or to share a sugared fruit with a pet gazelle