cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Feb. 11th, 2014 03:12 pm)
It has now been five days since I came down with this illness and I am still not seeing light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. I finally made it to Urgent Care yesterday -- very difficult, given my caregiving and parenting demands -- and found the visit to be almost a total waste of time. I don't mean to denigrate a profession, but every time I get a PA (Physician's Assistant) instead of an actual doctor there, things go badly.

I am very well versed in speaking with doctors. My mother taught me well. And I have done a lot of talking about her in recent years. Most of the time, I know what medication is needed and how to say what will get me a prescription for it. But that skill seems wasted on PAs. Whether it's because they have to be literal-minded or just because they lack the range of knowledge that doctors possess, they don't seem to register my nuanced diagnostic commentary.

That would be annoying in its own right. But frequently the PAs I've dealt with have been maddeningly obtuse or even downright obstructionist. I specfically asked the PA last night for a strep culture, since the back of my throat is displaying the classic symptoms, but she refused! I ended up spending $40 for basically nothing.

Right now I am in the stage where I would jump for joy to feel even a little better. It's painful to eat. It's painful to talk. And the Robitussin I've been taking to deal with a potential worsening of my cough has me feeling very strange indeed. It has a depressive effect, yes, but also tends to distance me from my emotions, so that I have the sense of watching a bleak movie, only I'm in that movie.

It doesn't help that the space in which I'm currently holding my office hours has an inexplicable dyr-yet-musty smell that just won't go away, no matter how long the window is open. Nobody can place the odor. It makes me feel anxious, both because I don't tend to do well with that sort of "environmental" problem anyway and because I spend far too much time trying to figure out what it could be!
The dilation of this meme necessitated by my extremely taxing schedule of late is threatening to turn it into an exercise in nostalgia. Friday, when I was still thinking I would post this entry on the one-week anniversary of the date in question, I was reminded of the comparatively peaceful time before my fall semester had fully kicked in. Two days and a whole lot of mesquite processing later, I'm nostalgic for that time I had to think. It's going to be a hard semester.

Anyway, I'd better get to the task at hand. Because one of the commenters on my entry for "Day Two" rightly pointed out that it was exhausting to read, I'm going to do my best to rein in my excursive impulses for this one. But there are some points that must be explained if the entry's documentary value is to be established.

My day began at 3am, after only a few hours sleep, with more "fun" on the computer. The course for which I'd been developing online instructional materials was going to start in a few days and the work had to get done. If I'd known in advance that this job would require me to learn as much about website building as it did, I would have approached it differently. But sometimes you just have to deal with less-than-ideal circumstances. In the end, because the URL and physical location for the site weren't ready until July 30th, I had less than a month to learn how to make things work via trial and error and then make them work in spite of the inevitable errors that creep into a technology-centered project.

The stress of the last-minute tasks in which I was engaged was powerfully enhanced by the fact that my cable modem -- which dates, to be fair, from December, 2002 and is set to be replaced in a few days -- kept cutting out for no apparent reason. This meant that work I would normally have completed in four hours took twice as long. I spent a lot of time staring at the balky device waiting for it to reset, only to witness another "failure to communicate":

Hoping for the orange light at the end of the tunnel



Luckily, my daughter was taking the bus with a friend to her old school, where she planned to visit her favorite teacher ever, the incredible woman who presided over the multi-age classroom in which Skylar spent first and second grade. That meant I didn't have to get her until 3pm. Or, as it turned out, twenty minutes later, because I couldn't find her for the longest time. After some mild and largely irrational panic, though, I located her and her friend and was able to document the end of their nostalgic circuit to see people and places they had especially missed since commencing middle school:

The old stomping grounds



Read the rest! )
First, let me thank all of you who commented on the first installment in this series, posted last Wednesday, and apologize for posting the second one -- and its sequels -- so late. Thursday was exhausting, as I will explain below. But it was followed by several days in which I needed to work late into the night and, after a few hours of sleep, early the following morning. In short, I had neither the time nor energy to put together a complex post. And I couldn't muster replies to the comments I received, either.

That I really, really wanted both to post and to reply in a timely fashion, however, strikes me as a hopeful sign. Forcing myself to try to live up to the high standards of this meme -- even if I fall significantly short of the mark -- seems to be liberating a long dormant part of me, at least for a time. Plus, every day that I make myself take photographs is a day when I feel ten times better about myself. Even if I've failed to post for a week -- which is probably my longest dry spell since 2003 -- I've been documenting each day for posterity.

Certainly, there were plenty of moments during the insanity of the past week when having the camera with me was the best way to cope. I'm pretty experienced at distancing myself from situations by documenting them and frequently manage to take a little pleasure in my detachment, even if I would otherwise be stressed out or sad. Somehow, reminding myself of my obligation to record the week made it go by faster and with less furor. And now, as I make the final push to get this post that I've been working on in fits and starts to the point where I can make it public, I'm finding that the "memories" of last Thursday are preparing me for my second long day up in the Phoenix area tomorrow. OK, enough of this preamble and on with the show. . .

Thursday was my first day of teaching for the fall semester. I woke up a little after 4am, with every intention of getting an early start for my drive up to the Phoenix area. But one thing led to another -- doing the dishes, printing class rosters, looking for CDs that would suit my as-yet-inchoate mood -- and I didn't make it out the door for good until I was in danger, though slight, of risking a late arrival.

I do love that blue glow



Luckily, though, the traffic on I-10 was not hampered by the construction that made my commutes in the fall of 2008 and 2009 slower than they needed to be. I know I'm probably cursing myself by making this statement, but the smooth sailing was most welcome for a first day which I began tired after getting only three hours of sleep.

The Tucson-Phoenix corridor makes for a pretty boring drive on the internet. But those who complain about it should try on I-95 in New Jersey for size. At least there are interesting landmarks here and there, not to mention those huge Southwestern skies. I certainly don't take the sight of Picacho Peak in the first rays of the morning sun for granted.

Picacho Peak a little after the sun has come up



See the rest! )
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Dec. 11th, 2009 11:21 pm)
This is the time of year when my desire to partake in the pleasures of the season crashes headlong into a workload that makes it difficult to relax, much less frolic. I should be staying up tonight to grade, since I struggle to get much done when I'm doing parental activities. But I'm just too tired -- mentally -- to manage. Hell, I can't even focus my thoughts long enough to decide on something to watch. For the fourth time this week, I find myself sitting in front of the television with a vague urge to consume something culturally meaningful. Yet the knowledge that whatever I pick may quickly prove tiresome, because I Iack the energy to invest in its reception, makes me feel paralyzed by doubt. I had all sorts of ideas for meaty entries to write here, too, without the will or the way to realize them. At least the lights are pretty, even if my back is turned to them.
I'm about to drive up to Phoenix. Thanks to the wondrous hospitality of a friend, I've been staying up there on Monday and Wednesday nights so that I can avoid the brutal early-morning commute of last fall. The strange thing, though, is that I'm actually more reluctant to go at this time than when I'm rushing out the door with the knowledge that five minutes squandered can mean thirty minutes of extra stop-and-go traffic at the other end of the journey. Maybe that will change, as I settle into my routine. At the very least, this new schedule is good practice for most of my possible futures. I just wish that the time spent on the interstate would feel shorter than it does. Somehow the knowledge that dawn would greet me en route sustained me last fall in a way that the monotony of white-line fever does not.
Astonishingly enough, after mishaps both large and small, including a remarkable variety of computer problems, I have finished my responsibilities for that book I've been editing off and on for the past year and a half. And, boy, am I ever glad. As much as I like the finished product, I can cheerfully go a few months without thinking about its form or content.

Editing is a strange endeavor. I am very good at it. But I find that, given my extreme susceptibility to identifying with others, the task frequently leaves me without words of my own to communicate. In striving to inhabit the voice of my author, I neglect my own voice to such an extent that it seems to be coming to me from a foreign language.

Indeed, I often find it easier to speak in the voice of another than I do to speak as myself. While this is an extremely deep-seated problem, manifest in most aspects of my life, it is a particularly pressing concern when I'm attempting to write. Few things make me as happy as the feeling of having built up serious momentum at the keyboard. But if the flow I attain is not one I recognize as my own, the sense of release is muted at best.

This is a circuitous and rather somber way of explaining the tremendous sense of relief I feel in knowing that I can consign the 65,000+ words of that have been crowding my consciousness to the filing cabinet of memory. Now if I could just manage to start filling the void left behind by their departure with my own prose, I'd be set.
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Dec. 10th, 2008 08:54 pm)
Although I was kind of low on Thanksgiving, oddly without much appetite, the extended holiday was wonderful overall. I caught up on my rest. I made further headway on resolving the computer problems that were making it hard to resolve non-computer problems. And I had a great time when I left the house, all without feeling the need to blog about it. The problem, as all you nine-to-fivers have known for a long time, is that the respite has to end, in spite of my desire to prolong it. Right now, my body is pursuing various strategies for making it impossible for me to resume my regular workload, whether by constricting my respiratory system or making me randomly dizzy. I'm onto its deceitful ways, though, so it's unlikely that those strategies will prove successful. Instead, I intend to press on and resume making semi-regularly appearances here in which I will mask my frustration at having to return to normalcy.
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Oct. 19th, 2008 11:21 am)
I have really enjoyed my time in Albuquerque. It has been a while since I attended the American Studies Association's annual convention. From what I could tell, there is more interest in the sort of cultural studies I wish to practice than was the case for a while. That's an encouraging sign. Even more hopeful, though, was the sense of a support network that I got while I was here. More soon.
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cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Sep. 17th, 2008 08:50 pm)
I'm doing a reasonably good job of managing my new schedule. But that task has been abetted by the absence of significant marking responsibilities. Now, though, that dreaded phase of the semester has arrived. I dislike grading more than just about anything I've done in life. And I detest late-night marking sessions, particularly when I have to rise very early the next day. I shouldn't complain, though. Compared to the proverbial "real" job that certain parties invoke when I rue my lot, it's a piece of steak. I only wish I had the opportunity to submit it to a more vigorous marinading before getting to work.
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cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Jun. 30th, 2008 02:53 pm)
"I did what I did. It felt right. I'm fine with that."
I just composed a pithy rant about my day. But my client crashed before I could save it -- I was writing in the heat of the bad feeling I'd reactivated -- so I'm taking that as a sign that I should shut my mouth.
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( May. 9th, 2008 10:11 pm)
Monday, the doctoral student I advise passed his qualifying exam with the proverbial flying colors, using the techniques I imparted to him to excellent effect. Tuesday, another advisee passed her M.A. exam. She also made good use of my advice on how to handle the pressure of the event. Wednesday, I spent the five hours before teaching meeting with a series of students I mentor, all of whom had produced better thinking than I would have expected when I first encountered them. Thursday, I held office hours all day after getting up at 5am, managing not to lose the thread of my ritual advice-giving. And today, Friday, the two students whose Honors theses I directed this semester presented their work at the Department's end-of-year reception to much acclaim while a third student, who had delayed turning in her thesis from last spring, came to see me, pleased that I'd continued to work with her during a difficult time and relieved to have finally completed the requirements for her degree. I'm exhausted, but also proud of the work my students have done and, a rarity for me, of the work I did helping them to realize their potential.
From: "Charles L. Bertsch" <cbertsch@uclink.berkeley.edu>
Sender: cbertsch@uclink.berkeley.edu
To: badsubjects@uclink.berkeley.edu
Subject: Authority: a long, but not frivolous post

While coming back from a long, uphill hike in the desert-like heat on Mt.
Diablo (S.F. Bay Area) with my friend yesterday, I shared elements of the
recent debate on this list about _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ and
authority and we had a good conversation about it all.

One interesting thing my friend said was that STTNG is a very soothing,
comforting show to watch, but that there seemed to lurk something menacing
beneath the surface calm. She likened the experience to one she has working
with Yuppies (a favorite target of hers--she means people of the 35-45
year-old range who hold managerial/executive positions in her
service-industry company), who present a very therapeutic, concerned facade
on the level of superficial interpersonal communication, but who often act
in ways that contradict that facade. Her point was that these 'Yuppies'
shared with Picard a tendency to act autocratically in the end, but with a
therapeutic--if not happy--face.

I invoked Joe Sartelle's point about the need for a Utopian model of
"structure without domination", of good leadership. My friend replied that
though she is one of those people who, largely because of bad experiences
with parents and others in power over her, always chafes under authority,
she thinks that there is "something about the species" (the human one) that
demands hierarchy and leadership and that she could see the value of good
role models for leadership, but added that she still had problems with _Star
Trek_ and constructed an argument about what _Star Trek_ leaves out and/or
represses much like Richard Singer's well-thought-out and thought-provoking
negative/demystificatory reading of STTNG.

I had been planning to make a post about my own negative experiences of
people in power over me and others who act as if they aren't because they
shun hierarchical models of domination, so my friend's likening of STTNG's
main cast to Yuppie managers got me thinking. See, at UC-Berkeley there are
a lot of professors in the 30/35-45 year-old range, especially male ones,
who disavow their authority in the graduate-school classroom while still
retaining it in practice. In the service of a post-60's democratic
classroom, they tend not to speak from the position of authority very
often. Instead, they let most of the course be taken up by students oral
reports. The idea, I suppose, is that students will learn more by teaching
each other in a non-hierarchical setting than they would by being lectured
to. Sometimes this turns out to be the case. In my experience, however, what
usually ends up happening is that students become hyper-competitive in their
oral reports in order to impress the prof who really does, as they well
know, still have the power to make or break students with grades,
evaluations, recommendations, and gossip with other professors. Many profs,
on the other hand, seem to feel threatened by their own disavowal of
authority, by the fact that they don't have much time to speak as a teacher
to their students, and thus act out in various ways, usually by suddenly
interrupting the flow of class discussion to give mini-lectures proving that
they are smarter than their students and/or suddenly attacking some point
or comment in order to reestablish their critical authority.

The point I was going to make is that I think it's better to have models of
authority that recognizes itself as such than authority that pretends it's
something else. In other words, if you have authority in practice, it's
better to spend your time trying to do something good with it, something
that will benefit the people beneath you on the 'chain of command' than it
is to waste most of your time disavowing your authority, only to
periodically act out resentment over that disavowal. I was thus going to
choose Picard's type of authority over that of the Boomer profs I mentioned
above.

And I still would. My friend's sense that Picard and other officers on STTNG
were actually more like the post-60s anti-authoritarian authority I mapped
out above than they were different from it got me thinking, however. I'm no
expert on STTNG, but am pretty sure that at least Picard's authority is more
like the authority that knows itself than than the authority that disavows
itself/is blind to itself. Nonetheless, I am also able to understand why my
friend--who works in one of those hexagonal or octagonal (it's so postmodern
yyou can't map it in your head!) buildings with mirrored glass on the
outside that looks an awful lot like a spaceship, both inside and out--felt
that STTNG was somehow like her workplace.

It's because the sort of post-60s workplace reforms that have made
Post-Fordist service and high-tech industries very different from the
classic model of American business have, I think, proceeded from a
conception of the ideal workplace strikingly similar to the one in STTNG.
For example, these reforms have established the legitimacy of feelings/vibes
in the workplace and led to the creation of personnel management
positions, filled mostly by women (Counselor Troi, Dr. Crusher), where the
concerns of therapy--people 'acting out', needing acknowledgement,
etc.--can be discussed as deadly serious workplace issues; they have
apsired to create managerial positions for women, but have often ended up
creating new positions to be filled by women instead of putting women in the
older positions (some of which have been phased out); they have emphasized
an 'outsourcing' of micro-authority in which individual units within a
company are given more authority to make substantive decisions on issues
they know about, while transforming higher-executive positions from the
old-school hands-on/a-hand-in-most-decisions autocracy into a more distant,
less involved marco-authority more concerned with long-term strategy and
'steering' than daily decision-making (Picard could be read in this
light--he's pretty hands-on, but often delegates important everyday
decision-making to his officers); the list goes on.

My friend and I ended up talking about these sorts of workplace-reforms,
arguing over their good and bad sides. The S.F. Bay Area is full of
companies whose corporate headquarters are highly-touted examples of the
post-60's workplace at its best: Levi Strauss, The Gap, Apple Computer etc.
Within the white-collar confines of their headquarters, corporations like
these have implemented all kinds of indisputably progressive
programs--liberal counseling/therapy for employees in crisis, equal pay for
equal work regardless of gender/sexual preference, day-care for employees
with children, benefits for domestic partners regardless of sexual
orientation and marital status.

At the same time, however, the 'progressive' aspect of these corporations
almost always extends only to the white-collar (and largely white or
white-identified) jobs within corporate headquarters or regional offices. As
a recent expose in our Sunday paper's magazine pointed out, the
'progressive' post-60's workplace, with all its extra expenses, of clothing
companies like Esprit, Levi's, and The Gap is made possible by the
exploitation of mostly Asian, often immigrant, mostly female labor in the
San Francisco sweatshops where the clothes are actually made. Similarly,
there have been numerous exposes of the ways in which the Silicon Valley
high-tech industry adopts a double-standard for its employees: the
white-collar programmers and marketing personnel experience a progressive
post-60's workplace, while the people--mostly of color--who assemble circuit
boards in highly toxic environments are badly exploited.

How does all this relate to STTNG? As Richard Singer pointed out, we don't
really see the non-officers under the cast-members command very often,
except as background. I don't think it's fair to assume that they are as
exploited as the non-white-collar employees mentioned above, since we simply
don't know much about them. However, it's certainly worth thinking about
what STTNG doesn't talk about and/or represses in order to think about the
good and bad sides of the post-60's workplace I've been going on about. One
of the points Jonathan Sterne's post (I think it was his) seemed to be
getting at was the way in which Utopian visions need to be thought through
in terms of the practices of exclusion that make them possible (an argument
Fred Jameson makes beautifully in "Of Islands and Trenches" and some of his
articles on sci-fi). There *is* a limitation in STTNG's Utopian vision of
"structure without domination", even if it's one imposed by the financial
and narrative demands that keep regular casts small: it is a Utopian vision
of a managerial--what we would call white-collar--environment (and that
includes Starfleet, whose non-Enterprise representatives tend to be
high-ranking officers or high-ranking officers in training).

Now I agree completely with Joe that the limitations of this Utopian vision
do not render it unusable to us and that, indeed, those limitations *demand*
that we use our critical skills to extract--a la Jameson--the Utopian from
its narrative/structural cage. But I think we also need to bear in mind its
negative side, in order, for example, to understand the sort of blind-spots
that can plague good-intentioned workplace reform in the present.

I'm certain that many, perhaps most, of the people who have worked hard to
make the white-collar portion of companies like The Gap, Levi's, and Apple
Computer progressive were concerned only with their own local struggle.
Indeed, they probably had to have ideological blinders on to focus their
energies on reforming their own workplace. And what they achieved is
certainly a good thing for the people it affects--it has its Utopian side.
But it also represents a further severing of the white-collar managerial
class that benefits from their efforts and the post-blue-collar workers who
often quite literally pay the price for them. To rephrase and expand upon
Walter Benjamin's famous dictum, every post-60's workplace reform represents
the putting-into-practice of an aesthetic Utopian vision that is at one and
the same time a document of barbarism.


Well, I'm tapped out. My overall point is that the Utopian vision that STTNG
presents has similar blindpsots to the sort of Utopian vision that motivated
post-60's workplace reform and that, while I by no means think we should
discard either vision, these blindspots are symptomatic--and here's my
most unashamedly Jamesonian point--of the increasingly illegible nature of
global capital and that it is our duty as analysts of contemporary culture
to try to develop and sustain a critical vision capable of relating Utopian
visions to their blindpots, negative or demystificatory Dystopian visions to
whatever signs of hope, however 'micro', are out there.

Charlie, hoping that you read the whole thing and that you share comments to
extend the debate further.

Today I had a distinct vision of myself working in a provincial business office in the South of England, circa 1975. There was a lot of paper. The phones looked primitive. And the torpor in the smoky air was overwhelming. I often have geographically and historically specific fantasies, but this one stood out A) because it seemed so far removed from the realm of wish fulfillment; and B) because the precision of its details generated a powerful urge for flight. I suppose I could blame my vision on a youth in which I eagerly watched reruns of British sit-coms on PBS, with Good Neighbors and Butterflies being particular favorites. But then I realized how much the vision accords with my recent professional experiences, despite the temporal and spatial displacement. It's like I've been waiting for the Notting Hill riots to destabilize my conception of the world. My fear, naturally, is that the sweeping changes to come will turn out to have Margaret Thatcher's wiry grip on the broom handle.
Alright. I admit that I should have listened to the new Radiohead album before ranting about the new Radiohead album. I wasn't going to download it ahead of its release on CD, because, as I've noted previously, I am still too invested in the way things used to be, when I would eagerly wait for a record to arrive in stores. But I should have waited to comment on the hype surrounding In Rainbows's internet-only debut. I still find the way it was covered annoying. And I'm still peeved that Radiohead is treated differently in the media from other equally worthy acts. Nonetheless, after hearing the album over and over during the past two weeks I need to prostrate myself before its musical excellence. Seeing There Will Be Blood last night, with its superb Johnny Greenwood score, reminded me that I need to separate my misgivings about Thom Yorke's public persona -- which I mysteriously conflate with Natalie Merchant's -- from my response to the band as a whole. Not that he isn't a fine singer. It's just that I prefer my front men and women to be less earnest and more ironic. That said, the lyrics to "Creep" have been on auto-repeat in my mind since the semester started.
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Nov. 17th, 2007 10:29 pm)
I am tired of being tired. I am tired of being old. It's just a little after 10pm and I feel like the sky is about to grow lighter in the east. I think people would understand drug abuse a lot better if they were mindful of the ways in which the capacity to push oneself to the limit decreases exponentially after one's early twenties. I shudder at the sight of those grandmother's at our local Wal-Mart who chew holes in their mouths while working the graveyard shift. But I have enormous sympathy for them. People get high to forget about the pressures of work. And they get high to cope with them too. If you can't fall asleep anyway, mind-numbing repetition becomes much easier to tolerate.
cbertsch: This is me, reflected in my daughter's eye. (Default)
( Nov. 15th, 2007 05:10 pm)
Let me just state, for the record, how compromised I feel right now. I mean, until today I believed that I was working at an institution of higher learning the equal of Plato's Retreat. But now that ESPN has come to visit on a Thursday, my belief system has broken into tiny plastic pieces. I may never be able to teach again.
.

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