Refinement Paper

In our current age of rampant gentrification, visible in almost every neighborhood in urban (and suburban) America, understanding the history of our fascination with making things beautiful on the outside demands constructive conversations about the end results of the neighborhood improvement projects everyone seems to be involved in somehow. Given that we have now more than 350 years of recorded experience as Europeans on this continent, it behooves us to look at what has become of our endless need for manners and propriety.
As I began reading The Refinement of America by Richard Bushman, I was curious, but slightly concerned. As much as I enjoy spending time in front of museum display cases filled with cups, saucers, pitchers, silverware, flatware and cutlery, the idea of reading an entire book that may well have turned out to be nothing more than a catalog of household items seemed dull in the extreme. Had I taken the time to read the chapter titles before diving into the text, I would have discovered earlier that I was very much mistaken.

Bushman does indeed spend much time discussing household items that seem mundane in their ubiquity and function in our very middle class world. However, he does so in prose that is easy to read, even in its details. He breaks down his chapters into short sections, rarely longer than five or six pages, which make it very easy to get through without feeling intimidated by the statistics. I found myself being pleasantly surprised at how much of what he had to say resonated with me as I thought of my own childhood and the importance of my parents’ wedding china and silverware, the ritual of Sunday dinners and the manners we were expected to learn. It was not infrequent that something in any one of the chapters inspired me to nod in remembrance or agreement.

The book is explicitly organized chronologically, beginning in 1700 and moving forward to 1850. Geographically, it moves from the coastal towns of the Colonies inward to the first cities of the new United States. Thematically, Bushman moves from discussions that focus almost entirely on furniture or some specific household item (like forks) to larger themes of power and culture and the spread of gentrification.

It is rather like taking a course in calculus, where what you learn at the beginning of the course will come back again and again throughout, and you must take care to pay attention because the little things do matter, even though at the time they seem simple and unimportant. Ultimately, forks matter very much. Aside from the handy cocktail party trivia about the appearance and spread of such silverware; the placement, use and ease of use has become very telling in a person’s character and upbringing. The importance of upbringing and ease in gentility and gentrified life is a theme that Bushman introduces very early on which continues, even to the last. And with good reason, as the culture he is describing from its infancy and on is very concerned with such things.

I found the discussion of urban planning especially interesting. The idea that it was a hobby of the unemployed upper classes to design and plan urban areas is ludicrous to me in this day and age, but sadly appropriate for the time. I say ‘sadly’ because there doesn’t seem to be much emphasis on the actual living space of the ordinary people who live in cities. The problem of designing both civic and commercial space is one that brings up another (potentially) peculiarly American urban attitude. Our cities seem to grow the most when the areas devoted to commerce are emphasized. There is very little importance placed on the civic buildings and needs – they become a side thought in the larger cities or take the place of commerce in the smaller ones. Most of our states’ capitols are not the largest cities. Bushman gives the example of London as a European city struggling to meet both needs, and how it functioned as an example to the designers of urban areas in New England.

"The subordination of civic to commercial seems inevitable in middle-class
American, with its homegrown elite based on trade and agriculture and its lack
of titled lords. Commercial London would be re-created in the colonies, it would
seem, not Westminster. And yet the idea of a balanced city with ceremonial civic
space to match its wharves and warehouses would not die. (154)"

As I write this, it occurs to me that Bushman is following a certain bias that we in the States seem to have. He never moves West of Philadelphia. It is telling that this book about refinement, with all of its breadth and intensity, is just as mired in the old ways as the old ways themselves. It is also telling that at no point does he explicitly acknowledge this, perhaps with good reason. We began on the East Coast. Those cities and museums and battlefields hold the monuments of our history. We have moved the manners of the East across the Plains and the Rockies and down to the Pacific. Now, we move the painted facades and quaint looking street signs into long neglected urban areas and dying small towns, without thinking of the larger ramifications or longer term results.

Bushman, Richard. The Refinement of America: Persons, Houses, Cities. Vintage Books. New York. 1992. 504 pgs.

Also - the bibliography is heaven and the index is wonderful. I wish that fiction writers would do this sometimes.

Warblings from my coffee cup

It is not without a certain amount of trepidation that I look ahead to the beginning of school. Living in a college town that is also a capitol city allows me to see and interact with a constantly shifting group of people (and drivers). I find that I would rather deal with the damn politicians.

I have been in an educational system for 30 years now, starting with montessori when I was 3. In that time I have learned to accept that I will be in an educational system for the rest of my life. Academia is a good place to be and I find that my own version of stability in life is quite happily met there. I am constantly surrounded by thinking people who are also doing what they love to do. It is a heady mix and one that I am loathe to be without.

Having said that: I detest college students. I hate them with a passion that is usually reserved for child molesters and batterers. It's not healthy, and I keep finding amazing peolpe on campus and in the field who totally blast my impressions of whatever class of undergrads or graduate students I may have developed. My illusions get built up, and then they come back to town. Droves of clones looking to get their degrees just to get a better job, generally not even in the field they happen to be studying, who don't pay attention in class, never get passionate about anything while they are sober and who speak of nothing but inanities outside of the classroom, and frequently in the classroom. The romantic ideal of roundtable discussion and socratic method is not an ideal, it is a reality in many worlds and many schools and many classrooms. It is wonderful to be a part of a group of people who are actively engaged in whatever discussion is at hand, even if it devolves into a mass condmenation of any movie with colin farrell in it. It is wonderful to see and hear people's minds change, to feel my own mind change, and to be actively dynamic.

So it hurts my heart when women and men on campus walk around seeming to care more about how they look and how little work they have to do in order to just pass and get out than they do about taking advantage of the environment in which tye find themselves, and not just to further social expectations of marriage and job. I hear stories of women saying that they don't agree with feminism because women shouldn't be expected to think for themselves. I see athletes lugging their beaten bodies around with students who are paid to do their homework and make sure that it gets turned in on time. Leaving class is a parade of flipping cell phones and declarations that class is boring and all anyone can wait to do is get to the bar or the movies or the pool or the tanning booth. Even the nerds are getting in on this! At the coffee house downtown, the only people who actually study are the ones who have a test tomorrow or graduate students.

And don't even get me started on the bar scene. I go to bars where the student population is very very low. I'm older than they are, I can get away with it.

My complaints are not new. People have been lambasting the younger generation for eons. It is not the younger generation that I have such problems with: it is the generations of people who are running around not thinking for themselves and not being actively involved in their own lives. These students are frustrating, not just because I don't understand their need to hypersexualize themselves, but also because they don't seem to have a concept of personal responsiblity. They have parents who will call the departmental offices if their child has a simple question. The number of parents who call for their children has grown depressingly in the last four years. I have done some data collection on this, as I used to work in an academic office, and I've asked people what their impressions are. The number of professors who are being relegated to the role of comedian or entertainer without being able to feel like they have imparted anything of substance is getting ridiculous to me.

There is a counter to all of this, of course. Professors and students who see this problem of mediocrity and are responding, as they always have, with an increased level of creativity and activity. Classes on the literature of science, independent reading courses that grow out of discussions in class because there are so many people interested that there just isn't enough time without it, research oppurtunities that involve undergrads in the work of their professors and in the application of the all of the memorized info and theories, the list goes on. I only hope to be a positive addition to that world, instead of feeling like every time I walk onto campus I am going to be assaulted by waves of apathy and hair product.

On a lighter note, I think I'm going to have go into geography. I'll start with History and then go to Archaeology, but I suspect that my research, which is becoming more and more urban oriented, will, in fact, lead me to my father's old office where I will be ensconced, quite happily, for the rest of my life.

back into the womb

or back out of it, whichever. i can't quite decide this morning. birth is tiring and messy and kind of smelly. my home is kind of the same way right now. been gone for ten days. felt like much longer - combination of working and being in beautiful country and having much done - much more mental space to interact with the world around me without having the constant filter of 'must get something done' in front of me.

to explain further: i am going into hiding, sort of. i have taken some time away from regular job and regular relationship responsibilities and am focusing on my home and my creative outlets so as to create a life that is the one that i want, truly and fully. i have writing to do, a desk at which to do it, a chalkboard at which to line it out or draw it out or whatever and many many ideas which need to be written down and rejected or fleshed out. i have yarn and knitting needles and crochet hooks and many projects in mind. i have a job, perhaps, making stained glass windows again, only this time, it's on my schedule (albeit with deadlines) instead of someone else's. i am thinking of working on a set of designs for glass insects - flies and bees and dragonflies and damselflies and butterflies and such. perhaps i will also work on designs for some of the native plants in the sandhills that i find beautiful and ingtriguing also. the colors will be more difficult to match and the customers for such work more difficult to find, but i would like to do the work of it.

right now, however, i have a home that is stinky. just plain sitnky. it is one of those unidentifiable stinks that is the result of the combination of cats, litter, laundry, dishes, chicken grease and very very high humidity both inside and out. oh, and we smoke indoors. the vacuum helps considerably, but i think the house has only been vacuumed once in the last ten days, so i must do that today. i have sage with which to smoke my room (the dumpster for our building is right outside my west window) which, in combination with doing the laundry, changing the sheets and vacuuming, should return it to a state that is acceptable and even enjoyable to me.

i tire of being social already, and i have only been home for 20 hours. it is a short time. i have only four days and most of that time will be spent doing things that i enjoy and that i know will lead to better things later on in the week.

oh, and myspace is being stupid on my computer, which is why i am spouting off here as opposed to there, which is, i think, slightly better equipped for personal rants than this one was intended to be, but i haven't been here in a while, so maybe it's a good thing to get back in practice, no?

slowly but surely, the world falls together with smiles and a happy sense of predictability. just a mess right now, and i kind of want sugar and much more sleep. only i have slept enough. it is time to wake up.

Mendelsohn & Eco

keywords: realizing the ever important existence of the game; living without concern for overall meaning; existentialism of childhood; resistance of flattened education & social expectation; the question of belief & ability as well as the risk of visibility.

Comparison papers are often very frustrating to write. This is not because of any actual difficulty involved in comparing or contrasting themes, characters or opinions, rather it seems to me that it is not always easy to pick two or three pieces of work wherein it is plausible to find such items worth comparing. I here acknowledge that worth is completely subjective and arbitrary depending upon personal taste and experience. So, imagine my delight upon finding myself reminded of Umberto Eco while reading Daniel Pinkwater.

Umberto Eco came into my left several times in very small ways for many years until I finally picked up The Name of the Rose. Then I read it. And I fell in love. My love manifests itself in various expressions with which I will not entertain you now.
Daniel Pinkwater came into my life via email. My sister's friend's husband suggested him as he knew that I grew up in Chicago, and he thought I would enjoy his writing. I picked up Young Adult Novel at the library. And I read it. And I fell in love. Again.

This is what happened in my brain after I had read Eco's Foucault's Pendulum and was in the middle of reading Pinkwater's Alan Mendelsohn, The Boy from Mars. The main characters in Eco are Casaubon, Belbo and Diotallevi. In Pinkwater they are Alan Mendelsohn and Leonard Neeble. I won't go into the details of stories - head to Amazon or to the authors' websites if you're interested, which you should be.

Alan and Leonard spend much time wondering if they've been swindled, feeling impatient with their accomplishments and discoveries until their day-to-day lives suddenly become more meaningful and involving. The question of perceptive truth is not one that either boy spends much time considering in the face of the actualities of their actions. They know what they know and don't spend time splitting the hairs of meaning.

Casaubon & company spend so much time splitting hairs, even as parody, that it is not even in the face of what exists that they realize what they know. Sitting on the hill, looking out over the world that has suddenly become beautiful, Casaubon finally sees it as something beautiful and worth while, not as a figment or a symbol or cog in the game. He simply sees it as it is to him at that moment, which is all any of us have anyway.

It strikes me that the ever repeated need to act or to analyze becomes so much a hindrance, but a necessary one. It is too much to ask that an individual record every moment as poetry or inspiration. We all connect over the activity of being alive and in a moment, that is what makes it possible to share through word or sound or image or mathematical representation.

Anyway, it does not seem to me that there is one righter way than another to navigate through this world of endless possibility. Alan Mendelsohn removes himself to a world which is as narrowly defined as Leonard's, just in a differently defined space. Leonard does not dwell on past events, rather choosing to explore the options available to him immediately. Casaubon is the only one of the three meta-conspirators who has a connection to the world of immediate reality and possibility (through his lover, Lia) and he is left alone to enjoy its beauty only at the end, with death invisible and imminent.

One of the appealing traits of finding thematic continuity in literature or life is the constant threat of conclusion drawing. There is no definite answer or meaning to life. No disclaimer, no corollary. Whatever is added is just the recognition of perception and human reason and analysis. I prefer to keep things practical. That is the language I choose to describe my interaction with the world.

I think I could drive myself completely batty with an essay on 'practical' - find a theme of short story, and exploit it for everything it's worth. Then I go back to the story of the Four Rabbinim and I remember that stories are fun, that the world is as it will be around us and in us and there is little comfort for me in the over indulgence of my own definitions. Seeking always for meaning becomes something of a lame passtime, and tends to send me back into a state of paralysis and comprehension. I like that once Heinlein's alien man realized laughter, he stopped needing so much to shut down to grok - he was connected enough to the rest of humanity to not have to remove himself from the actions of the world anymore.

Back to Eco & Pinkwater:

The idea of the game: the existence of a continuum of interconnected constantly shifting conspiracies all leading to and away from, protecting, hording, seeking some unnamed source of ultimate power and knowledge. In Foucault's Pendulum, Eco plays it past the point of repetition, exhaustion and madness. Every potential is sought and pursued. All possible magic, sex, symbol, decadent exploration, devotion and permutation is touched, having its climax in terror, horror and the absence of all mystique, all decorum, all honor or noble code. It is a feast of information, one at which I found myself working until I realized that no matter what parts I paid attention to, no matter how many facts and connections remained in my gray cells, the story was going to move forward through the pages and I might as well get on with it. At is turned out, I was perfectly correct to discontinue my double readings. I would have been just as correct to continue them, to have spent time studying the symbols, the patterns, the criticism, the writing about Eco and semiotics, his essays, etc. It only made a difference that I chose to read on less slowly because I finished at a different time with different information and a different lag time between finishing the reading of the book and realizing the extreme to which I enjoyed the experience and its after effects.

As it is, I am sitting here now, writing about the game and remembering when it popped its head back up into my consciousness. It happened in two phases, really, 1) driving to Chicago talking to my mother, and 2) Jingle Bells in Mendelsohn.

Driving to Chicago talking to my mother.
It is about an eight hour drive from Lincoln to Chicago. That is just driving time – not including lunch. My mother and I sat in the front and split the driving responsibilities while my father sat in the back seat, worked on his paper and got some much needed sleep. We didn’t turn on the radio. I didn’t sleep. Neither did my mother. She drove first. I started a crochet project: a pineapple doily in blue.
Driving after lunch, east of Iowa, about an hour out of Chicago, the conversation turned here: a nested box series where nothing exists inside one box except another box. The outside is the key – the space – the markings, the workmanship of the covering. The trick is that the last box is empty – maybe (Now that I write this, I like the idea of having to re-nest the boxes, to recreate the puzzle. Find the remnants, reverse the codes, etc. What fun.) As we spoke, the game – the never-ending meaningless conspiracy theories – resurfaced briefly and I had to go on about it for some minutes. I had thought of Eco before in conversation, even Foucault’s Pendulum specifically, but it had always been as an example of sublimity and endlessness in the face of mediocrity with meaning. Particularly the recent Da Vinci Code. To consider the story, and the writer as having transcended the hopelessness of a happy ending and settled in my consciousness where it fits with all of my other chaos needs – that was created, that was the sudden recognition of a new heartbeat in space.

Jingle Bells in Mendelsohn...
...and then two fictional 12 year old boys got so frustrated with the ridiculous attempts to get a wireless to play Jingle Bells when clamped to their ears, that they started laughing uncontrollably at how easily they had been swindled. And I thought of the wonderful power of laughter to return us to a state of enjoyment and relaxation; how fabulous to live in a world in which this is our best weapon against adversity. And then the wireless radio equipped with alligator clamps started playing Jingle Bells.

For me, this was the moment when everything fell apart – the game became real, it became possible, it became part of the world around it. It became incredibly boring. Alan and Leonard took about 24 hours to master the art of Jingle Bells and move into other realms of telekinetic possibility, and they found it boring. What is the point of being able to make other students trip or the headmaster speak weirdly into the PA every morning? It’s dull. It doesn’t make life any more fun. Instead of trying to piece together some new philosophy of life in which all people are simply puppets and everyone lives on a stage with some strangely unidentified puppetmaster who is sought by some who claim to know that he exists, it is possible to simply continue to exist, knowing that the tricks are just that: tricks. Casaubon has this wonderful moment with his lover, Lia, when she tells him that searching for some underlying pattern or conspiracy or source of control is a completely stupid thing to do. And she is right. It is an incredible passage that tugged at my heart the first time that I read it, and I am still reminded of it every moment of every day.

"Yes indeed, my child. The sun is good because it does the body good, and because it has the sense to reappear every day; therefore, whatever returns is good, not what passes and is done with. The easiest way to return from where you’ve been without retracing your steps is to walk a circle. The animal that coils in a circle is the serpent; that’s why so many cults and myths of the serpent exist, because it’s hard to represent the return of the sun by the coiling of a hippopotamus. Furthermore, if you have to make a ceremony to invoke the sun, it’s best to move in a circle, because if you go in a straight line, you move away from home, which means the ceremony will have to be kept short. The circle is the most convenient arrangement for any rite, even the fire-eaters in the marketplace know this, because in a circle everybody can see the one who’s in the center, whereas if a whole tribe formed a straight line, like a squad of soldiers, the people at the ends wouldn’t see. And that’s why the circle and rotary motion and cyclic return are fundamental to every cult and every rite." (Eco, 302)

It is a simple concept. Things work because they do. The only reason for the joke of any under- or over-arching system or conspiracy controlling the whole world and everyone in it is to laugh at its insanity.

The first time that I read Robert Anton Wilson’s book the Illuminatus, I did not grasp the joke and spent many days wondering how much of it could be true. Then I watched Oliver Stone’s version of JFK’s assassination and it sparked some ridiculous need to use the analytic abilities of my brain to turn every tiny little event in my life into some kind of cog in a wheel that I could never see, find or know.

Pinkwater’s 12 year old boys instinctively know that life just exists with weirdness, and level 26’s and really super hot chili. They understand that laughter is the key. For me, it is enough to know that at the end of every joke there is a punch line that leads to another, even more laughable, joke.


Eco, Umberto. Foucault's Pendulum. Ballantine. 1990. 533p.

Pinkwater, Daniel. Alan Mendelsohn, The Boy From Mars. Bantam Books. 1979. 200(ish)p.

It's not quite the same as squishing clowns into a bug, but we are all creatures of comfort and fairly good sized personal space bubbles.

Here I am, happy in the shadows at the wedding of loved ones. (I am their official mascot!)

Breaking the ice

Spoken this morning in front of the computer while stretching in the chair:
- True conversation begins when - oh my gosh! There’s a heating vent in here!
- Uh huh. That’s been there always.