Acephalous

FYI, Part II

Remember Work Bird?  Well:

Get on it, people!

"And there still would have been the Holocaust..."

Few write on the history of evolutionary theory as compellingly as John Wilkins. (Had his Species: the History of an Idea and Defining Species: a Sourcebook from Antiquity to Today been available in 2002, I could've avoided years of thankless legwork and finished my dissertation with normative time to spare. Not that I'm bitter.) So I can think of no better way to celebrate the 150th anniversary of the publication of the Origin than to listen to Wilkins speculate about what would have happened had it never existed. My only qualm is with this paragraph:

Lamarckism, by which I mean the progressivist view of evolution, not the “acquired inheritance” version that has little to do directly with Lamarck and anyway is set up as a contrast with Weismann not Darwin, would have played an even greater role in people’s thinking than it did. It may still be with us now—we would be trying to figure out how progress occurs out of necessity, rather than it being the rather odd view of people like Conway Morris.

I think scholars who focus more on the scientific literature underestimate the popular appeal of what amounts to quasi-Lamarckian thought both then and now ... but then again, as I'm the person who wrote my dissertation, I would.

On the style of Octavia Butler's Patternist novels

People routinely slam the prose styling of Octavia Butler (as I would demonstrate with citations and quotations were the new TypePad editor not so averse to material copied from OpenOffice documents), but reading the Patternist novels according to the chronology internal to them has me appreciating the gentle relentlessness of her prose.  However, sometimes I think the critics have a point:

"What does the white animal follow?" asked Anyanwu's grandson loudly enough for Doro to hear.  "What has he to do with us now?"

"My master must pay him for you," said Anyanwu's grandson loudly enough for Doro to hear.  "What has he to do with us now?"

"My master must pay him for you," said Anyanwu.  (Wild Seed 41)

That just scans something awful.  In all seriousness, though, rarely is the reason behind an editorial error so obvious or so indicative of an author's stylistic tics.  In Wild Seed, Butler wed her characters to her prose, such that the latter's stolidity became evidence of the former's hard-fought restraint.  (It is, after all, a novel about two people who spend their unnaturally long lives finding excuses not to murder each other.)  She did so deliberately because, at this point in her career, she could.  The novels were published in this order: Patternmaster (1976), Mind of My Mind (1977), Survivor (1978), Wild Seed (1980), Clay's Ark (1984); but they move through narrative time in this one: Wild Seed (1980), Mind of My Mind (1977), Clay's Ark (1984), Survivor (1978), Patternmaster (1976).

I'll discuss how her interest in evolution is, fundamentally, a narrative one (and in so doing, discuss how this interest's inherent in all evolutionarily-inflected narratives, including Darwin's) at some point in the near future.  For the moment, what fascinates me is how the elder Butler crafts the prose of the later novels in such a way that it "develops" into the style of the earliest one (Patternmaster).  Were she actually a Dickian hack ("sophisticated ideas communicated in pedestrian prose," as Consensus Q. Amalgam would have it), such a feat would be beyond her; but comparing the occasionally dense and ornate prose in Wild Seed (which shares formal concerns and historical content with 1979's Kindred) to the more direct, straightforward prose of Clay's Ark—written nearly half a decade later—it is difficult to imagine that the latter's resemblance to Patternmaster is anything other than intentional.  When she was young, she couldn't help but write of the future in spare and quotidian manner; but by 1984, she could adopt a transitional voice, something that approximates in complexity the difference between 1977's Mind of My Mind and 1976's Patternmaster. 

While it may seem odd to call attention to the refinement of her narrative voice, it is essential to understanding the refinement of the thought processes it develops alongside: the series is unusual in that, as Butler said, she invented a society that was conceptually fascinating, but instead of going on to invent another, she became interested in how that one could possibly have come to be.  The fact that eugenics and alien invasion were, for her, the answer is troubling, but I'll leave the how and why of that for a later post. 

Dear Readers of the Washington Post,

Not only am I someone "who says he has a PhD in English from the University of California at Irvine" (emphasis mine), I actually do! 

On an unrelated note, I'm not sure whether the Google Image results for this blog are representative or insulting, but they certainly are something.

I take requests: "Remember that post you wrote about playing in the outfield and writing a dissertation? I'd love to read it again, now that I'm a week away from filing my dissertation."

(Considering the alternatives, I love the fact that this post is the one I might be remembered for.  As I noted at the time, I'd had this half-written for ages but never could quite finish it.  This post is as close to naked as I get—so much so I deleted it two seconds after I'd posted it before reversing course.  I've received emails thanking me for this post from struggling grad students in chemistry, physics, political science, geography, geology, English, Spanish, French, Russian, education, mathematics, astrophysics, statistics, philosophy, biology, molecular chemistry, history of consciousness, and dance departments.  It is, as the person who requested I repost it tonight said, an academic version of "You Are Not Alone," which would be much more awesome if it didn't analogize me into Michael Jackson.  That said, I'm more than happy to oblige this request, and apologize for the overlong introduction.  But before I get to the post itself, I should say that [1] the reason my interlocutor couldn't find this post is because my category for all things baseball is the Spanish "béisbol," and [2] if you read my post without reading Wally's comment, you've done yourself a disservice.)

"Good passage in French on what dogs dream when awake."

That being what I wanted to name my contribution to the book event on Jenny Davidson's Breeding: A Partial History of the Eighteenth Century, not because it's relevant, but because it's my favorite entry in the Darwin notebook I cited in the post.  You're welcome to comment on the post here or at The Valve, but I don't want to reproduce it over here and risk confusing the search engines as to the location of the event.

The dissertation you were destined to write.

For some reason, I kept on hearing the name "Lambert" repeated recently.  Every time I did, the theme from my favorite childhood cartoon took up residence in my head for hours on end:

Watching "Lambert the Sheepish Lion" as an adult made me realize that the reason I always remembered Winnie the Pooh narrating it was because Winnie the Pooh narrated it; more importantly, I learned that my fascination with nature vs. nurture debate started early.  I can graft so many elements of that cartoon onto arguments in my dissertation that it makes more sense to say that those arguments were rooted in it.  

"Lambert" tackles the notion that we essentially are what we are, but can choose to be otherwise.  So too does my dissertation.  It addresses the fact that superiority is dependent upon environment, and that environment encompasses both the social (the lambs) and natural (the wolf) worlds.  So too does my dissertation. 

I would go on, but I can barely see for all the irony: a cartoon I loved as a child in which the premises of deterministic thought were challenged likely determined the topic of the dissertation I would write as an adult.

The moment you really and truly believe you finished . . .

. . . is when you search for something in your field and find this among the results.

271 notes (two hundred and seventy-one) from a novel I don't remember reading.*

Before I could return The Damnation of Theron Ware to my beloved library, I had to remove all the notes I'd stuck to its pages. It took me a while:

The resulting note wheel is as lovely as it is meaningless, because I remember absolutely nothing about The Damnation of Theron Ware. From my notes, I can almost reconstruct why I read it:

Theron enjoys the "primitive" pleasures of Catholic picnics; contrast to earlier (235-6) image of it as orderly machine; no, from sociological & intellectual perspective it's orderly, from internal is primitive

If only I knew the antecedent of "it" I might be able to reconstruct my reason for reading the book. Am I the only one for whom the Five Year Rule applies? (And do I really want that question answered?) (x-posted.)

---

*Notation borrowed from a letter Joyce wrote to his mother after arriving in Paris: "Your order for 3s 4d of Tuesday last was very welcome as I had been without food for 42 hours (forty-two)." How's that for passive-aggression?

Meet the New Scott, Same as the Old Scott

I tried to file today.  Woke up early.  Did one last read-through.  Handed it into the printer by 10:00 a.m.  Specified paper weight and margin width.  They said give them half an hour.

I walk across the bridge to campus with my signature page.  Try to get Second Reader to sign it.  He won't sign it until my chair signs it. 

I email my my chair.  He says he can't sign it until he arrives home at 4:00 p.m.  Says I should drive up to his place and he'll sign it.  I say I'll see him then.  Third Reader's signatures are in the mail but didn't arrive with it.

The department secretary immediately phones Third Reader.  He assures her he'd sent it UPS.  Not campus mail.  Not FedEx. 

The library archives—housed in that library—close at 5:00 p.m. 

It is now 12:00 p.m. 

I walk back across the bridge to the printer.  They handed me two copies of my dissertation in boxes.  The boxes say "Copy Paper" on them.  The woman behind the counter rings me up.  My total comes to $41.00.

Or approximately nine fewer dollars than the cost of a box of the specified 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond. 

I open one box.  It is my dissertation.  Yay!  Printed on copy paper.  Boo!  I mention the error.  Show the woman my copy of the order.  She needs to talk to her manager.  He is exasperated.  Says to do my order again.  Says this order will come out of her next paycheck.  She says it will be about half an hour.

It is now 1:00 p.m.

I return to the department and check the mail.  Nothing from Third Reader.  Department secretary says not to worry.  The UPS guy arrives late.  I don't worry much.  I still have four hours.  I double-check my paper-work. 

I FORGOT TO PRINT OUT MY EXIT QUESTIONNAIRE!  IT IS ALL OVER!

Department secretary says not to worry.  Says I can walk to Graduate Studies and print it out.  I do.  I can.  I return to the department.  Still no mail. 

Wait a minute—we still may have mail.

No! 

It is now 2:00 p.m.  I return to the printer.  I am handed two boxes.  They say 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond on them.  I open one up.  It is my dissertation.  Yay!  Printed on the proper paper.  Yay!  With new margins.  Boo!  I mention the error.  The woman denies it. 

I show her my table of contents.  Show her where it says CHAPTER TWO begins on page 81.  Pull out the first page of CHAPTER TWO.  Point to the page number at the bottom.  Ask her whether 76 and 81 are the same number.  She needs to talk to her manager.  He is exasperated.  She is exasperated.  She is told to be exasperated at home.  The manager apologizes.  Explains he charged her for the mistake.  That she must have widened the margins to keep down her costs.  Says I still need to pay for the paper.

I laugh at his hilarious joke.  He is exasperated.  Says I still need to pay for the paper.  I laugh again at his hilarious joke.  He is exasperated.  Says I must pay for the paper.  Says he would rather not call security.  Reminds me he has my home address. 

I make eye contact with the other man behind the counter.  He looks at the manager then back at me.  His eyes say the manager is a prick who will do this.  His eyes express sympathy.  I look at the clock.

It is now 2:45 p.m.

I politely inform him where to insert his precious boxes of 20-lb 100 percent cotton bond with my dissertation in them.  He says he would rather not call security.  His eyes say he rather would.  I pay him $140.  I tell him I know lawyers.  He laughs.

It is now 2:50 p.m.

I walk back across the bridge to the department.  Still no mail.  Tell the department secretary what happened.  She offers to let me use her printer if I can find the appropriate paper.  I bolt across a different bridge to the campus bookstore.  I bolt back to the department.  I print my dissertation on the proper paper with the correct margins.  I look at the clock.

It is now 3:35 p.m. 

I run back across the bridge.  I pass the printer and scowl at its tinted windows.  I jump in my car and head up to the house of my chair.  I am about to turn when I hear a sharp whoop.  I check my mirror and see that the whooper is a motorcycle police.  He asks me if I know why he pulled me over.  I say I do.  I show him the paperwork from the DMV indicating that I have paid my registration.  He walks back to his motorcycle and shoots shit with dispatch. 

It is now 3:55 p.m. 

He writes me a ticket to appear in court before December.  I say that is nice of him.  It is.  He says he hates the DMV.  Hates the lines.  Hates how they make his life hard for him.  How people like me who pay their registration spend weeks waiting to receive their stickers.  I agree.  He tells me to have a nice day.  I slam on the gas and arrive at the house of my chair.

It is now 4:05 p.m. 

I hand him my Ph.D. II form.  He signs it.  I hand him one signature page.  He signs it.  I hand him my ticket.  He says there is nothing he can do about that.  I say I wanted him to know how hard this was.  No I don't.  I say my mistake and hand him my other signature page.  He says congratulations I think. 

I was already sprinting back to my car.  I park near the library.  I run to the department.  There may be mail. 

THERE IS MAIL!  Papers are signed.  I return to my Second Reader.  He is reluctant to sign it.  He says he never saw the final versions of my chapters.  I am confused.  I had been led to believe that Second and Third Readers read drafts and make suggestions.  Revisions are made and submitted to the chair.  He either approves or disapproves of them.  I say as much. 

He says how does he know what he is signing off on.  Says I am very unprofessional.  I stare a stare of exhaustion and confusion.  I have run across bridges for hours.  I say I had revised my chapters in accordance with his criticisms and that my chair had read and approved the revisions.  I said I was revising until yesterday.  He says a professional would have submitted those revisions to his Second and Third Readers.  That a professional would have submitted the revisions I made yesterday to his entire committee. 

I try to say but even if I had I would still have been revising until the last minute but he cuts me off and says I should stop digging. 

He signs the paper.  He says good luck but his tone tells me not to submit any future revisions to him.  I try to explain but he turns back to his computer. 

It is now 4:30 p.m.

I am escorted downstairs by the department secretary.  The Dean signs his name and congratulates me.  I say thank you.  He says something about the license plate of the truck that hit me and the department secretary visibly winces.  She tells me to run upstairs and I hear her explain her wincing. 

As I climb the stairs my right shoe almost slips off.  I look down.  I am no longer Oedipus.  I am dehydrated.  Dehydration does wonders for swelling.  I have no time to appreciate those wonders.  I flop flop flop up the stairs and grab my dissertation.  I flop flop flop across campus to the library. 

It is now 4:45 p.m.

I see a friend of mine reading new fiction in front of the elevators.  I consider stopping to chat but dart into the elevator instead.  I enter a purgatory of sluggish ascension.  I am between the first and second floor.  Hours pass.  I am between the first and second floor.  I slump against the wall and pass out.  I wake to find apes in charge.  They throw me into an office in which undergraduates once copulated.  I begin to weep when I hear a shrill ding.  I am on the roof of the library. 

It is now 4:50 p.m.

I sprint across the roof and into the archives.  I am met by a smiling man.  He says I just made it.  Tells me to sit down and take deep breaths.  Assures me we can finish this.  I had him cash money for my fees.  He says the library likes cash money.  I say I know.  He looks at me and smiles.  Says it looks like you had a hard day doctor and offers me his hand.

This time the tears come.   

Gigantic Favor

(This post will self-destruct shortly.)

Will some generous soul read over my Twain chapter for 1) typos and 2) egregiously stupid statements?*  I wouldn't ask, but I have to turn this thing in on Wednesday and have the editorial near-sightedness which comes from being too close to a text.  The chapter is barely this side of awful—fitful pacing, signposts everywhere, ghastly prose—but at this point I'm more worried about done than good.**  I'm trying to avoid this is all. 

You can download it here.  I found me a mensch.  If you would like to read it, send me an email.

---

*Cut-and-paste errors mostly: lack of transitions, re-introducing something already introduced, not introducing something I seem to be referring back to, &c.

**That's not false humility.  The chapter is truly awful for reasons which I could (and will in the future) describe.  But it is not good.  Nor is it representative of my work generally.  (In conception, maybe, but not in execution.)

You wouldn’t like me when I feign anger for rhetorical effect.

(x-posted.)

(Quick note: if you think someone is being self-congratulatory when he conjures up an image of himself with floaties, you may want want to have your tone-o-meter examined.  Just saying.)

I’ve a long history of wading into hostile waters without floaties and I’ve no intention to stop doing so, but if I ever did, it’d be because of statements like “I see no difference presently between the terms democrat and progressive.”  Or claims that almost-imperceptibly-left-of-center candidates are socialist, communists, Marxists, &c. On the entire internet, this conceptual sloppiness is the only thing that ever threatens my equilibrium.  Stupidity I can handle.  Ignornace doesn’t bother.  Willfully ignoring what I’ve said will only earn you my titular faux-Hulk.  But play fast and loose with categories and you’ll piss me off so much I’ll have no choice but to ignore you.

Revising my dissertation, I think I’ve come to understand why: in my “professional” life, that’s all I do.  I define, re-define, pre-define, counter-define, retroactively define, retroactively re-define, retroactively pre-define, retroactively counter-define, &c.  The dissertation has taught me to put items in proper boxes because almost no one will be able to tell when you don’t. Items and boxes entail a responsibility people who put Obama in the Marxist box (or Ayers in the Leninist box and Obama in the Ayers box) don’t understand, except unlike shifting London from the Darwin to the Spencer box, the actions of irresponsible bloviators have a measurable impact on our lives.  Stuffing Palin in the feminist box allows a host of anti-feminists in as well, as evidenced by the past week of Republicans in deep dudgeon over the “sexist” attacks on the VP candidate.

My metaphor, on the other hand, teeters on actual sexism, so I’ll stop while I’m behind.  Wait, can’t stop there either.  I don’t mean to say that there were no sexist attacks on Clinton, or that there haven’t been sexist attacks on Palin.  I’m simply saying the hypocrites who crow about “sexist” attacks on Palin care not one whit about sexism per se — that is, had McCain not tapped Palin, conservatives would’ve avoid women’s issues for the forty-fourth Presidential election in a row.

too much writing + insomnia = the following sentence in your acknowledgments page

Were it not for his inspiring seminar in the fall of 2002, this dissertation would have been about James Joyce and devoid of snakes.

Consider yourselves warned.

Copyrighting dissertations?

So I'm performing all the piddly tasks attendant to filing while I wait for word of signatures when I come across this:

You may choose to copyright your manuscript by including the copyright notice but not formally registering your copyright. However, to fully protect your rights in a copyright dispute and to be eligible for damages caused by infringement, you must register your copyright. You can register your copyright at any time within its term.

If you are submitting a Ph.D. dissertation, you may have the copyright registered for you by UMI Dissertation Services (a division of ProQuest Information and Learning Company). To do this, submit the UMI form and required fee (certified check or money order—UMI does not accept personal checks) to the University Archives when you submit your manuscript. UMI will register your copyright and submit your manuscript to the Library of Congress.

I'm no copyright lawyer—nor do I understand commonplace copyright law all that well—but it seems excessive to have to pay someone else a fee to secure the rights to my own dissertation.  I'm inclined to slap a Creative Commons license requiring attribution, noncommmerical use, no derivatives and share alike and not pay anyone anything. 

I'm not about to Doctorow the thing—no one's likely to translate my dissertation into Romanian—but I'm fairly certain free copyright protection is better than expensive copyright protection.  Were I in the sciences and my research might one day mint some pharmaceutical company a forture I could see doing it.  But in the humanities?  Is it really necessary?  In other words:

Is my Jew showing or am I just being practical?

Those pictures? They would be my dissertation.

Good news:  My final chapter's been approved.

Bad news:  My advisor's email continued, "[b]ut please put an 'and' in the first sentence."  I thought comma splices were in this season. 

My "Mitchell" contains an adequate amount of Mitchell

Compound sentences, in which I only ever poorly, and even then but barely, compose in clauses of a clarificatory directness which (that?) doesn't (don't?) consist (consists?) of tentative qualifications such that their—

—their being the sentences, the compound ones to whose (witches!?!*) qualifications I am currently referring in reference to—the meaning of them a-and their misplaced prepositions, they are all of the lot of them lost, not only in the aforementioned revisions to the which (witch!?!) of which I then thus alluded to and because in the title of this post, whose** intentions vis-a-vis matters grammatical annoys in a manner distinctly circumlocutory.  In short and sum, that is to say, to put it another way only more succinctly:

Editing may be life, but editing ain't living. 

---

*(which's?)

**(witches!?!)

Inane questions of outrageously disproportionate importance (as written by the boxered interviewee of a hideous man)

• If you are, were, will or want to be an American and were writing a dissertation in MLA format, how would you cite Figure 2 on Plate 3 floating after page 26 of Galton's Finger Prints [.pdf]?
• If you are, were, will, want or sometimes pretend to be an American from a South haunted by slavery, sharecropping, and Just Plain Racist Nonsense and were talking about the "corroborative [lynchpin/linchpin]" of something or other, which of these two equally correct spellings would you use?
• If you are, were, will, want to sometimes pretend to be or ever hope to land a job as an Americanist who publishes on racial ambiguity in Twain's Pudd'nhead Wilson, wouldn't you die a brutal social death every time you introduced yourself as "Mrs. Wigger"?

Some times I feel sorry for the high school coach who cut Michael Jordan from the JV squad because, quote, "He would never cut it on varsity."

Others, I laugh at anonymous reviewers of such limited imagination their predictions have become Monuments of Wrongness.  To wit:

 

What it's like to Write a Dissertation

(A repost mired in optimism but apropos of nothing.)

In "On Sad and Joyful Passions of Academia," Anthony Paul Smith writes:

I get that people are unhappy with their advisors, with the lack of support from the university, and from the seeming glacial pace of publishing ... But the complaints, especially from those fully funded at institutions I would imagine are very exciting, foster a different sad passion within me.  They even foster a kind of resentment that they have been given this opportunity while I have to scratch out a future ... yet they seem to enjoy nothing about academic work.

The best way to talk about academic work is baseball.  This goes without saying. 

I played third base and shortstop.  I played them well.  I had sure hands and quick feet.  When the ball screamed off the bat, there was no time to think.  There was only time to react. 

Move the quick feet.  Catch with sure hands.  Throw the ball. 

In between pitches, I would look to the man to my left to make sure we knew our assignments.  Then the ball would leave the pitcher's hand.  Then the batter would swing. 

Move the quick feet.  Catch with sure hands.  Throw the ball.

In the infield I felt like part of a team.  I could look to my left and catch the second baseman's eye.  I could look across the diamond and catch the first baseman's eye.  I was a player among players.  We all knew how to react and how to react together. 

Then one year my coach wanted me to play center field.  Being a team player, I consented.  I'd shagged flies during practice, and was better than most at going back on a ball.  So why not?

I left the dugout and jogged past my teammates.  Then I kept jogging until my teammates looked like toy soldiers.

I stood there.  I was still playing baseball.  Only alone.  Three hundred and ninety feet from home plate.  Two hundred feet from anybody else. 

Short screaming or semaphore, I couldn't catch anyone's attention.  I was alone. 

See home plate in the shot above?  No?  Click on the picture to enlarge it.  See it now?  Focus your attention on the tiny white dot near dead center.  There's another to its right.  Either will work. Zoom in on them.  Those tiny dots are twice the size of a man's head. 

Now imagine something an eighth that size come shooting from the crowd. 

You track the ball.  You run intuitive quadratic models.  You run where you think it will land.  You compensate for drag.  The wind blows it to the left. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag. 

Or the right. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag.

Or further behind you. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag.

You adjust course.  You adjust speed.  All the while you track the ball.  All the while you calculate.  The ball hangs in the air for seconds.  You spend every last one of them calculating. 

This is not about reaction. 

This is not about moving the quick feet.  This is not about catching with sure hands.  This is different.

And you are alone.

And everyone is watching you. 

All eyes follow your eyes following the ball.  You feel them.  The weight of them.  They're relying on you to know how wide and fast to stride.  They trust the calculations you've made.  They trust in the ones you will.  Sometimes that trust is well-placed. 

Sometimes not.

Writing a dissertation is like playing center field: 

Your eyes light on something small launched at an incredible distance.  Time slows.  You calculate where it will land.  You compensate for drag.  You track it as it flies.  While sprinting.  You adjust your course. 

You are alone.  Everyone is watching you.

Fear overtakes you.  You will lose the ball in the lights.  You will lose the ball in the high glare of a slate sky.  You will trip.  You will stumble.  You will fail.

You compose yourself.  While tracking.  While sprinting.  Your chest hurts.  Your legs ache.  Then:

The satisfying recoil. 

You close your glove around the ball.  You gather your wits.  You throw the ball back to the infield. 

Writing a dissertation is like playing center field with one difference:

No satisfying recoil. 

The fear is there.  As are the calculations.  And the gasping.  And the aching.   Sometimes you exhilarate in your own breathless grace. Certainly.  And sometimes you admire the ball descending its clean arc.  Of course.  But:

There is no satisfying recoil.  There is no salutary smack of ball on leather.  Not yet. 

You are the outfielder problem (Chapman, 1968; Dienes & McLeod, 1993; McBeath, 1990; McLeod & Dienes, 1993, 1996; Montagne, Laurent, & Durey, 1998; Oudejans, Michaels, Bakker, & Davids, 1999; Todd, 1981). 

You await your solution.  But:

You're still playing baseball.  You're still having fun.  But:

You are unsolved and you are surly. 

I know I am.

BONUS (5 POINTS): How do Scott's career anxieties manifest in dream?

(A repost mired in optimism but apropos of nothing.)

In "On Sad and Joyful Passions of Academia," Anthony Paul Smith writes:

I get that people are unhappy with their advisors, with the lack of support from the university, and from the seeming glacial pace of publishing ... But the complaints, especially from those fully funded at institutions I would imagine are very exciting, foster a different sad passion within me.  They even foster a kind of resentment that they have been given this opportunity while I have to scratch out a future ... yet they seem to enjoy nothing about academic work.

The best way to talk about academic work is baseball.  This goes without saying. 

I played third base and shortstop.  I played them well.  I had sure hands and quick feet.  When the ball screamed off the bat, there was no time to think.  There was only time to react. 

Move the quick feet.  Catch with sure hands.  Throw the ball. 

In between pitches, I would look to the man to my left to make sure we knew our assignments.  Then the ball would leave the pitcher's hand.  Then the batter would swing. 

Move the quick feet.  Catch with sure hands.  Throw the ball.

In the infield I felt like part of a team.  I could look to my left and catch the second baseman's eye.  I could look across the diamond and catch the first baseman's eye.  I was a player among players.  We all knew how to react and how to react together. 

Then one year my coach wanted me to play center field.  Being a team player, I consented.  I'd shagged flies during practice, and was better than most at going back on a ball.  So why not?

I left the dugout and jogged past my teammates.  Then I kept jogging until my teammates looked like toy soldiers.

I stood there.  I was still playing baseball.  Only alone.  Three hundred and ninety feet from home plate.  Two hundred feet from anybody else. 

Short screaming or semaphore, I couldn't catch anyone's attention.  I was alone. 

See home plate in the shot above?  No?  Click on the picture to enlarge it.  See it now?  Focus your attention on the tiny white dot near dead center.  There's another to its right.  Either will work. Zoom in on them.  Those tiny dots are twice the size of a man's head. 

Now imagine something an eighth that size come shooting from the crowd. 

You track the ball.  You run intuitive quadratic models.  You run where you think it will land.  You compensate for drag.  The wind blows it to the left. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag. 

Or the right. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag.

Or further behind you. 

You run intuitive quadratic models.  You compensate for drag.

You adjust course.  You adjust speed.  All the while you track the ball.  All the while you calculate.  The ball hangs in the air for seconds.  You spend every last one of them calculating. 

This is not about reaction. 

This is not about moving the quick feet.  This is not about catching with sure hands.  This is different.

And you are alone.

And everyone is watching you. 

All eyes follow your eyes following the ball.  You feel them.  The weight of them.  They're relying on you to know how wide and fast to stride.  They trust the calculations you've made.  They trust in the ones you will.  Sometimes that trust is well-placed. 

Sometimes not.

Writing a dissertation is like playing center field: 

Your eyes light on something small launched at an incredible distance.  Time slows.  You calculate where it will land.  You compensate for drag.  You track it as it flies.  While sprinting.  You adjust your course. 

You are alone.  Everyone is watching you.

Fear overtakes you.  You will lose the ball in the lights.  You will lose the ball in the high glare of a slate sky.  You will trip.  You will stumble.  You will fail.

You compose yourself.  While tracking.  While sprinting.  Your chest hurts.  Your legs ache.  Then:

The satisfying recoil. 

You close your glove around the ball.  You gather your wits.  You throw the ball back to the infield. 

Writing a dissertation is like playing center field with one difference:

No satisfying recoil. 

The fear is there.  As are the calculations.  And the gasping.  And the aching.   Sometimes you exhilarate in your own breathless grace. Certainly.  And sometimes you admire the ball descending its clean arc.  Of course.  But:

There is no satisfying recoil.  There is no salutary smack of ball on leather.  Not yet. 

You are the outfielder problem (Chapman, 1968; Dienes & McLeod, 1993; McBeath, 1990; McLeod & Dienes, 1993, 1996; Montagne, Laurent, & Durey, 1998; Oudejans, Michaels, Bakker, & Davids, 1999; Todd, 1981). 

You await your solution.  But:

You're still playing baseball.  You're still having fun.  But:

You are unsolved and you are surly. 

I know I am.

BONUS (5 POINTS): How do Scott's career anxieties manifest in dream?