Counting magpies

For most of the autumn, I've felt extremely unsettled -- more so than ever before. With the wisdom(?) of experience, I was relying on the fact that this, too, shall pass. So I muddled through each day, trying to balance what everyone wants (which is a firm plan of wtf I'm going to do next) but really wanting to avoid dealing with any of it. Surprisingly, I was greatly refreshed by attending my ten-year Stanford reunion. Many, if not most, of my fellow Cardinal Class of '05-ers are in unsettled professional situations: changing career paths or generally having taken a while to end up someplace unexpected. That was comforting to hear.

Now back in England, I am trying to face the coming months of uncertainty with fortitude, but I notice that I've taken to a particular brand of casual omen-reading. There's an old nursery rhyme about the fortunes indicated by how many magpies you see. It's also the namesake of one of the first bands I liked, Counting Crows:

One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for girls
Four for boys
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told

(You can read more about various versions of this superstition here.) Magpies are very common in Cambridge, including the backyard of the wonderful house where I live. So when I glance out the kitchen window and see magpies, I've taken to counting them. Of course, I don't actually think these birds are predicting my future. But it's possible to not believe in superstitions yet do them anyway -- in which case, can you really be said not to buy into them? Do you touch or knock wood if you've predicted something good to happen?

My favorite Victorian, John Mitchell Kemble, liked to argue that the old pagan gods still lurked within daily life in superstitions, place names, and expressions. And as much as we claim to be more reasonable than our medieval ancestors, there's something deeply attractive in trying to detect a message behind what you see, whether it's the patterns of the leaves I'm currently watching blow off the willow outside the library, or the number of stark white and blue-black fluttering wings. So I count. And then I carry on.

Playing detective

There's a chill in the air. The crush of tourists has eased, and there is the faintest tint of red at the tips of the tree branches. Which means: it's time to apply for jobs! Just over a week ago, the MLA posted its annual jobs list, so I now have a meagre list of potential academic positions for which to apply.

The Tennyson monument outside Lincoln Cathedral

Having recently read up on how to make myself an attractive candidate, I'm more aware than ever that I need to get some publications out the door. The one that is closest to done has involved a lot of detective work, which has been surprisingly rewarding -- except when I think that I'm probably chasing a flee on a mouse in the corner of a palace and probably no one will care about the minutiae I am carefully footnoting.

Essentially, I transcribed a portion of one of Tennyson's notebooks, and I've been tracking down the books from which he pulled vocabulary, definitions, and short quotations. Step one -- which I did as part of my dissertation -- was to figure out what his abbreviations stood for. So, G.G.N. = a Renaissance play called Gammer Gurton's Needle. Step 2: from which edition of what book did Tennyson read each of these things? This has involved looking up publication histories and checking what books the poet or his father owned. I also finally -- after five years! -- made the trip to the Tennyson Research Centre, where the lovely librarian set me up to look through potential sources.

All this has been absolutely reliant on Google Books, which has proven invaluable. Sometimes the tiniest thing will put me onto the right track. Which dictionary did he use for the definition and examples of "lettan"? There are three possibilities with almost identical wording. But Tennyson spelled a particular Old English quotation using eth (ð), and two of the three dictionaries spelled the same quotation using thorn (þ). So, thanks to some squinting at the tiny text shown here, I had my answer. Whew!

There's no doubt that this is new information. Will anyone care? Well, that's for the journal to decide. My goal is to send the article on its merry way by the end of the month -- and then on to the next thing.

Unsupervised

My friend Jessica is about to hand in her PhD, and watching her go through the final throes of editing, footnoting, and formatting has thrown me into vivid flashbacks to this time last year. One thing she has said several times is that she doesn't know what she'll do with herself when she doesn't have this project hanging over her every day. It's a valid question, and I find myself taking stock of how I've spent the last year. But much more than looking back, I face forward, contemplating the blank of an unknown future.

A strange thing happens when you're an aspiring academic with a finished PhD and no job to go to. You have to: 1) come up with proposals for what you'll do next, 2) start publishing articles from what you've already done, and 3) begin the process of turning your dissertation into a book. In between doing those things, you must 4) apply to jobs for which you're not yet an appealing candidate. I've always liked organizing to-do lists into neat spreadsheets, and thus I am building a list of jobs for which even my supervisor says I shouldn't bother applying. Sigh.

So I turn my energy toward publishing, which includes doing new research to add onto what was in my dissertation. This is a thing I can control! I will burn through the work and spit out material so that I will have more citations to my name! Rawr! ... or so I tell myself. It has been refreshing and scary in equal measure to feel my way out onto new ground. For one article, I want to look at what some other Victorian poets were doing, as compared to Tennyson. I realize I know almost nothing about them, so I start poking around some introductory sources. So far, so familiar. Then I start finding relevant bits that I snatch up and hoard like the magpie that I am.

The really unnerving thing is that from here on out, I am literally unsupervised. When I produce a draft of something, I can't hand it to my supervisor for insight into what is innovative or obvious. Many of my original bits of research were suggested to me by others. Now I'm supposed to trust my own instincts, I suppose. And make use of my academic network, such as it is. Right now my nose says: "Sushi?" Okay, maybe that's my stomach. Be right back.

July holidays

When you travel alone, selfies are
a necessary evil.

June wound to a close with me pushing to complete the exam marking I'd been assigned so that I could fly away for summer holiday times. For some reason, the cheapest flight home was on Turkish Airways, so I took a day to see the major sights of Istanbul.

My hostel was right across from the Hagia Sophia, so that was my first stop. I spent all morning strolling slowly around inside, taking photos and listening to my audio tour. I stood on the now-unimpressive spot where sat the throne of the emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, aka the Byzantine Empire. I nerded out over the carved runic graffiti of a Viking guard. I marveled at the strange juxtaposition of preserved mosaics and peeling plaster.

One arcade of the
spooky underground cistern

Next I poked around one of the underground cisterns, which was surprisingly impressive and eery. I also visited the Archaeology Museum, which had some interesting things, but I must confess that after visiting enough various European museums, it's difficult to muster too much enthusiasm for yet another set of Roman tombstones. I hate myself a little bit for saying that.

I made a pass through the spice market, but the culture of salesmanship does not allow for customers to browse unattended, so I didn't linger at any particular stall. I despaired of being able to relax -- and then... Night fell. Being Ramadan, families came out to have picnics, and the old hippodrome (horse-race track) took on a festive atmosphere with live music, food carts, and a line of stalls akin to a Christmas market, with artisans selling crafts and sweets. I could disappear into the crowd and take everything in without drawing any attention. It was lovely.

Did someone say Turkish delight?

Once back in California, I spent a week throwing together a conference paper, which I duly delivered in Honolulu. Hawaii in July was frankly a bit too hot for comfort, but the experience improved once I got away from Waikiki, staying at an Airbnb place on the north shore, right across from a beach favored by turtles. When I'd had my fill of snorkeling, I returned home for a quick round of catching up with friends before the long trip back to Cambridge. Since finishing my PhD, I haven't made much progress on academic matters, so it's time to send some more things out on the path toward publication. And try not to panic about what to do with my life!

What was that about time?

Remember how, a few posts ago, I said I had a glorious abundance of time on my hands? June has completely removed that. If you know me at all, you know that I oversubscribe myself to many activities, and this inevitably creates clashes. This month, my daily schedule was occupied by working, in effect, two half-time jobs. I spent my morning-into-early-afternoon period at the front desk of the philosophy library, and several hours of the rest of the day marking exams written by teenagers.

Man alive, slogging through essay after essay on one of the same two literary passages... How many times can I possibly read about what the symbolism of children as leaves could mean? Or how the short sentences convey a hectic pace of life? The students are rarely wrong, just varying degrees of sophisticated with what the do with the things they notice. But it is good practice, and relatively good pay.

Speaking of good practice, I was totally flabbergasted to be invited to interview for an academic job this week. For one thing, they had already sent me a rejection email. For another, the timing could not have been worse with all of the end-of-year festivities going on in Cambridge. Somewhere between a lot of late nights and library shifts, I had to edit a chapter down to the size of a writing sample, throw together a job talk, and try to anticipate the questions I would be asked. I didn't really accomplish the last one, meaning that my fuzzy, sleep-deprived brain didn't really get into gear enough to handle the Q&A session well. However, the next day's official interview went smoothly, and I will now be much better prepared for the next time. (No, I didn't get the job.)

I'm working hard not to replay all of my mistakes in my head, because really the thing to take away from this is OMG I GOT AN INTERVIEW RIGHT OUT OF GRAD SCHOOL! Even if it took someone dropping out of the original shortlist, that is a good sign.

That adventure past, I face a week of brutal amounts of marking in order to catch up, but after that I'm headed home for a summer visit and a conference! Whee!

Graduation

There's no need to be superstitious now, because Cambridge has officially conferred the PhD upon me. With my parents grinning in one corner, the Latin was said, I kneeled and received my degree. You can read a full description of the ceremony here, but here's the pertinent part:

The Praelector presenting the graduand holds the candidate by his or her right hand and says:

"Dignissima domina, Domina Procancellaria et tota Academia praesento vobis hunc virum (hanc mulierem) quem (quam) scio tam moribus quam doctrina esse idoneum (idoneam) ad gradum assequendum (name of degree); idque tibi fide mea praesto totique Academiae."

["Most worthy Vice-Chancellor and the whole University, I present to you this man (this woman) whom I know to be suitable as much by character as by learning to proceed to the degree of (name of degree); for which I pledge my faith to you and to the whole University."]

The graduand's name is called and they step forward and kneel. Clasping the graduand's hands, the Vice-Chancellor says:

I spent many, many hours in
that library behind me.

"Auctoritate mihi commissa admitto te ad gradum (name of degree), in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti."

["By the authority committed to me, I admit you to the degree of (name of degree) in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."]

Oh, and as luck would have it, the man acting as Vice-Chancellor for my ceremony was Rowan Williams -- until recently the Archbishop of Canterbury, and generally an amazing man! If anyone is qualified to give me a degree in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, it's him! I'd been told that the ceremony is almost disappointing in its brevity, but I thought it was perfect: arcane and ritualistic enough to have a sense of gravitas, yet no hours sat listening to sub-par speakers and lists of strangers' names. I'd love to do it again! But oh, wait, I have the highest degree it's possible to achieve. Woooooooooo!!!!

Flashbacks

As we grow older, so much of our daily lives from the past can become a blur, but occasionally something will come back in vivid detail. This week, I made an effort to prepare my own lunch rather than buying it or getting it from the college cafeteria. Thinking about what elements to include, I suddenly could envision with perfect clarity what I ate nearly every day of high school:

• A bagel and cheddar cheese sandwich
• Yogurt
• Fruit -- usually an orange, the peel going into the empty yogurt pot
• Large cookies

I even remember keeping the plastic spoon to be washed and reused. (Once, when I was in elementary school, I'd taken one of the real family spoons and absentmindedly thrown it away; never again!)

Recently, in search of something to watch before bed, I found a BBC documentary on the disaster that enveloped Pompeii. Earlier the same day, I'd been reading about the planned new mini-season of The X-Files, and together these facts sent me back in time -- because my brother had a disturbing obsession with TV productions about disasters and alien abductions. I am four years younger than he and a self-confessed wimp, so this was a truly unfortunate thing for my sensitive psyche.

Sometimes these small-screen dramas were downright laughable, like the one about The Big One, an earthquake that finally rips Los Angeles free of the mainland -- or does it just sink into the sea? I can't remember. Others were more upsetting. And with the miracle of VHS tape, we could repeatedly watch "Miracle Landing" (thank you for the title, internet), a recreation of an actual flight where the top of a Hawaii-based airplane rips off and they have to keep flying because there's nowhere to land. I specifically remember a passenger with a strip of metal adhered to the side of his face. Another one, unimaginatively entitled "Crash Landing," starred Charlton Heston as the pilot. (Confession: I had conflated these two in my mind until just now.) Maybe it was my brother's ambitions to be a journalist that drew him to the dangerous and alarming, but I've never understood why these things actively excited him. They don't seem to have permanently scarred me, but this week I tasted once again the combination of fear and fascination. And some home-made lunch.