Can I just take a minute to comment on the absurdity of the way jeans are named? I know we've all thought this before.

From J.Crew, below, we have:
(1) Destroyed matchstick jean in vintage dark distress wash
(2) Destroyed matchstick jean in busted stone wash

Do I want my jeans Destroyed, Distressed, and Busted? Well, ok I like them to be kind of soft. But like, what's with the extreme linguistic punishment of denim these days?

So sad, so true:

But pretty darn amusing: Make Your Own Academic Sentence (link)

Exam Notes. I know you are all probably not that interested in reading my exam notes from Pocock's Virtue, Commerce, and History. My question, however (mostly for myself) is whether even taking these notes is at all useful. Like I think these notes say something, but I am concerned by the number of question marks, which indicate confusion, e.g., is x and such really true or a total misinterpretation on my part?

Anyway, here's Whiggism for you. Below, on other posts for today, there is a cartoon and a picture of a pretty outfit to make up for this.

Chapter 11: ‘The varieties of Whiggism from Exclusion to Reform: A history of ideology and discourse.”
Complication of defining Whiggism across the period. Negotiation of different categories: when Whig and Tory overlap; the difference between “Old Whig” and “Modern Whig.” Evolution of a morality of politeness in the early 18th century (the Spectator circle). Toryism slowly fading (?) into a few real Jacobites in the country. Concern that virtue of the arts losing integrity under corruption of Walpolean polemic. But also idea that “Augustan” art flourished under peace and prosperity, and therefore also under Whig supremacy (?). Idea of Toryism changing with George III and his apparent effort (from the POV of the Whigs?) to reinstate power of the crown (“patriot king”). Commerce in C18 held to entail presence of an aristocracy. Regrouping of Whigs with French Revolution. Romantic idea that Whigs associated with mechanical philosophy. Romantic radicalism flowing from both republican (?) and Tory source. Coleridge’s “Tory utopia.” Neomedievalism.

And this (actively stolen from Marie) is the reason I'm drawn to shopping rather than reading for my exams:

Stress = Too much shopping.

Or, as the bank account is suggesting, covetousness.

omigod.



At Free People for a lot of Money

Want. So much.

Actually, I take that back, I think "when exam notes deteriorate" is more clearly evident in the current dialogue surrounding the facebook faux-engagement, which definitely is "18thC/Victorian Gothic grad students studying for exams lose all sense in a ridiculous way."

When exam notes deteriorate:

Keats.

Isabella; or, The Pot of Basil
Summary: Isabella and Lorenzo are in love. Isabella’s brothers consider it an improper match and murder Lorenzo. Lorenzo comes to Isabella in a vision and tells her that he’s dead and where his grave is (approximately). Isabella digs up his body and takes his head and puts it in a pot in which she grows basil. Cries a lot over the pot. Basil flourishes. Brothers find out what’s in pot, are exiled. Isabella’s pot taken away, she is sad and crazy.
Notes: Crazy gothic story. Vampirism. Ghosts. Murder. Decay. “A Story From Boccaccio.”

The Eve of St. Agnes
Summary: Madeline and Porphyro get it on, but everything around them is dying, which is probably a bad sign.

Someone should really make these into Keats haiku. Like the dissertation haiku. Marie, we could could have a set of hip hop haiku keats! YO URN!

"Readers may be divided into four classes.
1. Sponges, who absorb all they read, and return it nearly in the same state, only a little dirtied.
2. Sand-glasses, who retain nothing, and are content to get through a book for the sake of getting through the time.
3. Strain-bags, who retain merely the dregs of what they read.
4. Mogul diamonds, equally rare and valuable, who profit by what they read, and enable others to profit by it also."

Mr. Coleridge, 1811ish. I fear that I currently fall into category #3. You?

Please, someone, come drink the remainder Coors light in our refrigerator. In fact, take it away and drink it somewhere else, because I don't want to be responsible if the metal aftertaste turns out to be poisonous.

Sometimes I miss high school. I accidentally opened iPhoto and this picture popped up. I don't REALLY miss high school. . . but right now grad school is high school but even MORE scary. Like instead of being asked to do an amount of work that seems impossible, the amount of work actually IS impossible.

Today is the first of October, and therefore, we must celebrate the advent of my favorite month of the year. We will do so with one of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite poets, accompanied by a pretty amazing manuscript copy (from here (link)). Click on the images for a close-up.

John Keats, "To Autumn"





To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.