So, I’ve recently grown out of my abbrevi8ing phase. “r kivistique” doesn’t carry the same trendiness it once did. I have decided to move on to real words.
Not to say I believe “real words” = established words. No no. I believe in descriptivist linguistics, in the creation, study, and appreciation of new speech ways by us folks on the ground, in cyberspace, wherever. But, “r kivistique”…well, we can do better.
So, I’ve changed my blog title to Archivistique, what my prior title was trying to emulate just in a hipper, more seemingly artsy fashion. But the French word archivistique is already alone pretty stylish; I don’t need to impress (confuse) anyone with my edgy interpretations.
So, I’m also changing my blog address to (I’ll give you three guesses):
arekivizteek.blogspot
archivistique.blogspot
arkivistiki.blogspot
arkivistiki it is, then?
I’ll be making the change within the next couple days, so whoever reads this has a heads up now and can adjust their "My Favorites" (which is so where people store this page).
18 May 2009
15 May 2009
Someone found me on wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/McDowell_High_School
The author of that blurb had to have been my coach. Actually, it's likely he created the whole "McDowell High School" entry just to mention this speech and debate highlight.
I appreciate his dedication to the team (and, of course, the reference).
The author of that blurb had to have been my coach. Actually, it's likely he created the whole "McDowell High School" entry just to mention this speech and debate highlight.
I appreciate his dedication to the team (and, of course, the reference).
09 May 2009
stop and smell the nostalgia
At an RA meeting a month or so ago, our boss started off, as he usually does, with an icebreaker. Sometimes it’s making party hats, which we’re then required to wear because he’s convinced this will bring our energy up. Other times, it’s a simple word game: give me 1 word that describes how you’re feeling.
One time, we pow-wowed in the back room— tent, smores, head band lights, nature sounds CD and all. I was totally for it, until my legs fell asleep, tucked awkwardly, trying to keep my feet out of everyone’ s odor radar. At this meeting though, he started off by asking: When do you feel most alive? It was one of the easiest hard questions I’ve ever had to answer.
“When I feel nostalgic.”
I recognize there’s something intrinsically charming about summer air, but what I can’t get over is how it takes me back to the summer before, and the summer before that, all the way back to summers spent playing whiffle ball in Grandpa’s backyard. I feel most alive when I’m transported back to the past without trying. It never gets old either.
Today was one of those days—the light winds, the freshness, the sounds of cars driving through thick summer air. Every time I breathed in, I was energized, remembering the feel of Erie summers, but also recognizing that next year, I’d be remembering the feel of Philadelphia summers…and the Erie summer before that, and so on.
One time, we pow-wowed in the back room— tent, smores, head band lights, nature sounds CD and all. I was totally for it, until my legs fell asleep, tucked awkwardly, trying to keep my feet out of everyone’ s odor radar. At this meeting though, he started off by asking: When do you feel most alive? It was one of the easiest hard questions I’ve ever had to answer.
“When I feel nostalgic.”
I recognize there’s something intrinsically charming about summer air, but what I can’t get over is how it takes me back to the summer before, and the summer before that, all the way back to summers spent playing whiffle ball in Grandpa’s backyard. I feel most alive when I’m transported back to the past without trying. It never gets old either.
Today was one of those days—the light winds, the freshness, the sounds of cars driving through thick summer air. Every time I breathed in, I was energized, remembering the feel of Erie summers, but also recognizing that next year, I’d be remembering the feel of Philadelphia summers…and the Erie summer before that, and so on.
03 May 2009
Mesemple Student
My last Broad Street Journal article, ever:
We call the backyard “Little Grantham.” It’s a grassy escape, furnished well with a 2-person hammock, a gazebo, unnecessary stepping stones in mulch patches, a table, a bike rack, and as the weather warms, good people unwinding, reading, socializing, and sunbathing. It serves as our pseudo-Messiah College getaway, and people seem to take to the hominess it provides.
I have been in Philadelphia for two semesters now and can appreciate the nostalgia for more trees, less concrete, and more quiet—the kind of atmosphere Grantham yields. But I can equally appreciate the hominess Temple University extends, an institution that once felt daunting, impersonal, aloof. Perhaps it had something to do with the magnitude of the student body, the crude (but comical) graffiti on classroom desks, or the nondescript social science buildings that look more like hospitals towers.
But these buildings have become my “home” this semester—my “Little Boyer,” as we humanities majors might tag them (even though these buildings are actually a good deal larger). As for the students and graffiti, both have become comforting reminders of the diversity, creativity, and verve of the student atmosphere here. Where at Messiah can you find that girl with poofy pink dreads, the African American Studies floor, or “Tits in my face” etched before you? Where at Messiah can you grab coffee with your doctoral friend who studies body image in Zimbabwe, expect wine and cheese at department seminars, and observe beyond-intense four-square tournaments outside the cafeteria?
Yes, Temple University has become a humble abode over the past two semesters, a home away from Mama Lottie that keeps my spirits lifted even in the face of finals week. My respite is the Mac lab on Gladfelter 2nd, the Mr. Softee truck I see and hear at least twice a day, and the sounds of jambay jams at the center of campus. My getaway is the “Sexy Green Food Truck” that serves spinach and feta omelets on pita, the “My president is black and I love it!” engravings on the tables, and the environmental activists in matching jackets I seem to always evade.
I expect when I return to Grantham in the fall, I will seek out some “Little Temple” moments across campus. You may hear me referring to Lottie as J&H or “JAYCH.” You may question my motives when I ask you to accompany me to the SAC (in Grantham speak, The Union). You may wonder why I’m using the elevator in Boyer to get to the second floor. Just give me time to settle back in. Allow me my dear Temple relapses, and I promise to work on not flashing my student ID in Messiah’s nonexistent security gaurds’ faces every time we walk into a building together.
We call the backyard “Little Grantham.” It’s a grassy escape, furnished well with a 2-person hammock, a gazebo, unnecessary stepping stones in mulch patches, a table, a bike rack, and as the weather warms, good people unwinding, reading, socializing, and sunbathing. It serves as our pseudo-Messiah College getaway, and people seem to take to the hominess it provides.
I have been in Philadelphia for two semesters now and can appreciate the nostalgia for more trees, less concrete, and more quiet—the kind of atmosphere Grantham yields. But I can equally appreciate the hominess Temple University extends, an institution that once felt daunting, impersonal, aloof. Perhaps it had something to do with the magnitude of the student body, the crude (but comical) graffiti on classroom desks, or the nondescript social science buildings that look more like hospitals towers.
But these buildings have become my “home” this semester—my “Little Boyer,” as we humanities majors might tag them (even though these buildings are actually a good deal larger). As for the students and graffiti, both have become comforting reminders of the diversity, creativity, and verve of the student atmosphere here. Where at Messiah can you find that girl with poofy pink dreads, the African American Studies floor, or “Tits in my face” etched before you? Where at Messiah can you grab coffee with your doctoral friend who studies body image in Zimbabwe, expect wine and cheese at department seminars, and observe beyond-intense four-square tournaments outside the cafeteria?
Yes, Temple University has become a humble abode over the past two semesters, a home away from Mama Lottie that keeps my spirits lifted even in the face of finals week. My respite is the Mac lab on Gladfelter 2nd, the Mr. Softee truck I see and hear at least twice a day, and the sounds of jambay jams at the center of campus. My getaway is the “Sexy Green Food Truck” that serves spinach and feta omelets on pita, the “My president is black and I love it!” engravings on the tables, and the environmental activists in matching jackets I seem to always evade.
I expect when I return to Grantham in the fall, I will seek out some “Little Temple” moments across campus. You may hear me referring to Lottie as J&H or “JAYCH.” You may question my motives when I ask you to accompany me to the SAC (in Grantham speak, The Union). You may wonder why I’m using the elevator in Boyer to get to the second floor. Just give me time to settle back in. Allow me my dear Temple relapses, and I promise to work on not flashing my student ID in Messiah’s nonexistent security gaurds’ faces every time we walk into a building together.
01 May 2009
Floam Academe
The title of a work-in-progress:
The Obama Phenomenon: Saturation, Commodification, and Personification of the (Trans)Nation
I had to present on this work in class today, using powerpoint, video clips, and website pages. I spent probably 10 hours on a 15-minute presentation, in which I ended up skipping a nice chunk because Adobe Flashplayer needed an update, the hourglass icon decided to party it up and waste time, and people, all four of them, zoned out.
The powerpoint was a beautiful piece of art, a complimentary image for each page, long URLs disguised by pithy word links, and a final “Emo for Obama” clipart piece, just because. Some headings included: “Obama’s Media Blitz,” “Obamafication,” “Obamamania,” terms I wish I could say were of my creation. I showed a montage of Obama commodities (obamaties?): O’jamas (Obama sleepwear), “Obama is my Home Boy” tshirts, Obama bottled water. But it was still too wordy, and still too unidirectional.
Presenting is like floam. It can be molded in just about any way, but it sometimes doesn’t stick: “Some surfaces have a slightly oily or soapy coating that can prevent Floam from sticking. In many cases you can find a substitute shape that will work better.”
Some surfaces (Classrooms. All of them.) prevent presentations from sticking. Why? We have oily, soapy minds, used to sundry stimuli, selective hearing, and nonstop interactivity. So, I should be working to find a presentation-style substitute that will work better, entertain more, theorize and formulate less (less formally).
Knowing my generation as an audience complicates things. We have to work harder and harder to add bells, whistles, youtube videos, games, and other simulations just to keep us semi-attentive. If it’s not the professor presenting, we feel we can finally take a concentration break. So we zone, and the floam-shapes we student presenters are trying to craft just don’t stick.
What happened to the good old days when I didn’t need to ‘google image’ everything, wear O’jamas* to class for that kick-off laugh, and show Crush on Obama videos to resuscitate the audience???
*I don't actually own a set of O'jamas, but feel free to visit http://www.ojamas.us/servlet/StoreFront to order yours.
The Obama Phenomenon: Saturation, Commodification, and Personification of the (Trans)Nation
I had to present on this work in class today, using powerpoint, video clips, and website pages. I spent probably 10 hours on a 15-minute presentation, in which I ended up skipping a nice chunk because Adobe Flashplayer needed an update, the hourglass icon decided to party it up and waste time, and people, all four of them, zoned out.
The powerpoint was a beautiful piece of art, a complimentary image for each page, long URLs disguised by pithy word links, and a final “Emo for Obama” clipart piece, just because. Some headings included: “Obama’s Media Blitz,” “Obamafication,” “Obamamania,” terms I wish I could say were of my creation. I showed a montage of Obama commodities (obamaties?): O’jamas (Obama sleepwear), “Obama is my Home Boy” tshirts, Obama bottled water. But it was still too wordy, and still too unidirectional.
Presenting is like floam. It can be molded in just about any way, but it sometimes doesn’t stick: “Some surfaces have a slightly oily or soapy coating that can prevent Floam from sticking. In many cases you can find a substitute shape that will work better.”
Some surfaces (Classrooms. All of them.) prevent presentations from sticking. Why? We have oily, soapy minds, used to sundry stimuli, selective hearing, and nonstop interactivity. So, I should be working to find a presentation-style substitute that will work better, entertain more, theorize and formulate less (less formally).
Knowing my generation as an audience complicates things. We have to work harder and harder to add bells, whistles, youtube videos, games, and other simulations just to keep us semi-attentive. If it’s not the professor presenting, we feel we can finally take a concentration break. So we zone, and the floam-shapes we student presenters are trying to craft just don’t stick.
What happened to the good old days when I didn’t need to ‘google image’ everything, wear O’jamas* to class for that kick-off laugh, and show Crush on Obama videos to resuscitate the audience???
*I don't actually own a set of O'jamas, but feel free to visit http://www.ojamas.us/servlet/StoreFront to order yours.
18 April 2009
Beyond Enculturation
This morning, I put on my robe and shower shoes.
I looked around at my things, because I was leaving the room.
I grabbed my Temple ID card, because that's what I need to be granted access anywhere.
But I was just going to the shower.
I looked around at my things, because I was leaving the room.
I grabbed my Temple ID card, because that's what I need to be granted access anywhere.
But I was just going to the shower.
09 April 2009
The Unintended Friend
Coffee and Internet Explorer have two unfortunate things in common:
They are effective in closely controlled doses.
They are addictive, which make their intake hard to closely control.
This morning, I couldn’t step out into the world’s flurry until I appeased my fix for both. Coffee had to be had to endure that exceptionally early morning meeting with my boss. Email checking became the next prerequisite for my day’s successful functioning.
The question of where/when to access coffee and the web subsists as a trusted companion I consult throughout the day. You have become a close friend, Question, but when and how I met you remain a mystery.
*Pause for eye roll.*
We met in college. We met in the information revolution. We met on a sleepless night, in a computer lab, by overhead, fluorescent candlelight. We met in a privileged, middle-class, academic space.
We became close friends on sluggish walks between class and on yuppie dates downtown. We became close friends when final papers no longer required paper and when discussion boards no longer physically convened.
And we became close friends when you became increasingly easier to answer--
at least for those of us privileged enough to consult you in the first place.
They are effective in closely controlled doses.
They are addictive, which make their intake hard to closely control.
This morning, I couldn’t step out into the world’s flurry until I appeased my fix for both. Coffee had to be had to endure that exceptionally early morning meeting with my boss. Email checking became the next prerequisite for my day’s successful functioning.
The question of where/when to access coffee and the web subsists as a trusted companion I consult throughout the day. You have become a close friend, Question, but when and how I met you remain a mystery.
*Pause for eye roll.*
We met in college. We met in the information revolution. We met on a sleepless night, in a computer lab, by overhead, fluorescent candlelight. We met in a privileged, middle-class, academic space.
We became close friends on sluggish walks between class and on yuppie dates downtown. We became close friends when final papers no longer required paper and when discussion boards no longer physically convened.
And we became close friends when you became increasingly easier to answer--
at least for those of us privileged enough to consult you in the first place.
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