The Writematrix Makes Her Presence Known (even Karagöz is cowering)

Posted on January 14, 2012 by lizcameron

The Writeamatrix returned on a dark and stormy night - in an old fashioned ship - and she is pissed! (Image thanks to this link)

It’s about 3 a.m., the wind is blowing fiercely outside.  I can hear the ocean from here – even though it is across the street.  The waves are crashing on the sea wall.  It is a comforting moment to feel the warmth of my bed, the wind railing over the head – and most importantly – on the other side of the roof.   I feel the warmth of my dog on my feet and remember that I am visiting Provincetown on Cape Cod without M. to do some business later today.  I feel relaxed, as, after all, I have made it through my tenure hearing.  And then I remember all of the work that I have to do to get ready for the semester.  And then I hear the crash.  It makes my heart lurch in that “is this finally a heart attack” kind of way…

The dog jumps up off of my feet and starts to bark.

Karagöz is fomenting riot.

Yehuda Rebbe is trying to get his yarmulke on straight in case we have to evacuate.

Hacivad Bey is remaining calm, but looking around furtively

Esma is trying to calm the chorus of dancing lady puppets who are tumbling out of the purse.

Kenne the Queen of manners and maintained order is reading the evacuation plan out loud to no avail – she is calling for the ladies to don their robe-du-chambres so that they will be able to maintain their honor in the middle of the night.

Zenne the nervous nellie is literally a bowl of jelly.

Mercan Bey is gathering up his spice stash so that he does not lose his livelihood.

Generally, the entire troupe of puppets are in a jumble – screaming and pushing eachother to get out of the house (they think it is another earthquake – even though they are far from Turkey these days, they are still connected by a spirit thread to their homeland, and feel the pain of winter in Van this year after the earthquake).

Bebe Ruhi is strangely quiet, this usual questionner, but soon he poses a question – “do you think SOMEBODY caused that crash to get our attention?”

And I stop and think, as my brain catches up with my adrenalin in the deep dark night light and soon they, and I, and the dog, realize that this is not an earthquake, and it is not a crash from the wind in the attic – it is – well – it is SHE.

Who is SHE you may ask?

Here is my writeamatrix - she looks an awful lot like The Corporate Dominatrix, who you can read about here - note she is carrying a briefcase (image thanks to The Corporate Dominatrix at this link)

SHE is the writeamatrix – the intoxicating academic whipcracker who has been on vacation in the Tierra del Fuego conducting research about the hardships of Magellan’s voyage and how these might be applied to torturing me into producing more scholarship.

She has entered the house through the kitchen vent in the roof.  I later learn that she blew in from Provincetown harbor and directly into the attic – using her magically strong whip to push the removable panel in the closet onto the floor, thus the crash.

And then the whip began cracking on the floor, and cracking, and cracking louder and louder until she worked her tiny self through the closet, into the living room and up into my bed.

“Hacıyatmaz, you had better get your roly-poly self out of the way.  I don’t want to hear one squeak from you.  Enough of this ‘creative writing’ crap that you encourage m’lady to engage in.  From here on out you are not m’lady anymore, you are slackerific to me, nameless and worthless.  As I have just returned from vacation, I will have mercy on your slackerific self.  You may sleep until sunrise, at 7:03 a.m.  You may then get up and walk the dog – return and make a to-do list.  You will eat breakfast and make your work with your contractor and CAD designing as fast as possible.  I will not tolerate long, dawdles on this front.  There will be no beach visit with the dog in the afternoon.  You will go STRAIGHT to work.  You will not go home until you have produced the final syllabus for Spring 2012 and finished that manuscript on suicidal foster youth (so much for M.’s hope that I might move towards “happiness studies” in the posts-tenure phase).  Got it?  I want to hear nothing more about Rumi and writing and likening that to tripe-washing.”  She glowed in the dark in a creepy way – she is, you see, made out of glow-in-the-dark dominoes, representing something about the quantitative data analysis I do as part of my academic work (e.g. numbers).  Her weird domino skin is akin to the artwork of David Machs (see this link)

A dominatrix made of dominoes - the writeamatrix's skin looks like this, by the artist David Machs (see this link for image attribution)

Meekly, I mustered a “yes, miss, I mean, Miss Writeamatrix, I will do it.”  My heart raced until my dog came and curled up next to me, making an M. replacement, and eventually his warmth lulled me back to sleep, until 7:02 a.m. when the little chorus of dancing ladies made a chain from the kitchen to the bedroom and delivered a glass of çay to me, just in the nick of time.  She’s back…but I have a feeling she is going to be in for a run for her money (and her whip) as Esma is eyeing her with a great deal of defiant skepticism.  Instead of roses and jasmine flowers exuding from her ears (which happens when she is happy), she is shooting out sharp, tropical ginger flowers and birds of paradise.  She’s not messing around either, this little hippie poet.  Hold your horses ladies and gents, we’re in for a hippie-writeamatrix battle.

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Back to life, back to reality: On Rumi, writing and tripe (yes, tripe)

Posted on January 13, 2012 by lizcameron

tripes on an market in Florence

Image of tripe via Wikipedia

It’s the day after my tenure hearing, and I am feeling relieved. Yes, I have a couple of months to wait for the official letter…but in the meantime, it’s back to life, back to reality.  I have manuscripts to finish, syllabi to prep, lectures to dust off and update.  As I sit here, trying to motivate myself, Karagöz is dodging invisible dust as he does back flips across the back of the couch.  He is doing all he can to distract me.  I think he is feeling a bit oppositional and empowered since the writeamatrix is off in the Tierra del Fuego on vacation, and he feels he has extra opportunity to sway me away from writing now.  Although the immediate pressure to write my academic world stuff is off for now (I mean, I’m not planning on becoming a SLACKER or anything), I am exhausted from writing. I am so exhausted from writing, that my writing energy might as well look like the flaccid tripe pictured here.  Karagöz is screeching with delight at this image, putting his puppet hands annoyingly in the way of my eyes, repeatedly, just to bother me. He is always the trickster, the worst and most base of impulses-kind-of dude puppet.

Why am I so tired, you may ask? Well, I think I have spent SO much time on academic writing, that I have not nurtured my creative side.  So, I am trying to post everyday here on the slowly-by-slowly blog because THIS type of writing is fun and is flowing out of me as of late.  For me, this personal writing is an effort to maintain the a bit more balance on the personal side of my life, and not let it be subsumed by the professional side of me.  I also love to write – but buried that impulse for years and years, as I wrote about here. This past summer, I read Natalie Goldberg’s famous book, Writing Down the Bones, and learned of the importance of writing a chunk each day – no matter what – even if it was drivel or a bunch of nonsensical words all in a line across the page. I started this “writing practice” while on Bozcaada and have not stopped, well, not too much anyway, other than the spell of time I fell ill this fall. I do cheat, though, and sometimes do a lot of writing ahead of time and post it for the next few weeks or so…so, I am an imperfect human and writer, but really, is there any other kind? Most of what you will read in this blog is written in one sitting – some of it is taken and “massaged” from past writing about the life and times of L. and M. on their cross-cultural marital roadtrip…but in any case, today, I am frustrated that I can’t jumpstart myself to keep going on the last few writing projects I want to finish before the new semester sets in, but as usual, Hacivad Bey has showed up to save the day and show me the light and show me the way.

Now, Hacivad Bey is usually a very solemn and peaceful sort (unless he is sparring with Karagoz in a tough moment, such as this incident in which they rolled around like tumbleweeds)…but today, Hacivad Bey is showing me that he knows about the power of humor…and he is doing it by quoting from the Mevlana Rumi himself, who had these words to say on writing poetry…

“I am loved by those who come to see me, and so I compose poetry to entertain them lest they grow weary. Otherwise, why on earth would I be spouting poetry? I am vexed by poetry. I don’t think there is anything worse. It is like having to put one’s hands into tripe to wash it for one’s guests because they have an appetite for it. That is why I must do it.”

İşkembe Çorbası (thanks to Eating Ankara at this link)

So, let me take this image of tripe, giggle a bit at Rumi – and keep calm, but carry on. All I can think of is the İşkembe çorbası (“ish-kehm-beh chore-bah-suh”) tripe soup that M. tells me about – only to be consumed in the winter months – and especially to be consumed after a night of drinking (what would he know about that? ancient history, he tells me, but potent history).  This image, unfortunately, stops all words for the moment – maybe enough to get me going again on these manuscripts!

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The Karagöz Puppets Attend a Tenure Hearing

Posted on January 12, 2012 by lizcameron

A few of the Karagöz puppets on the way into my tenure hearing (click image for attribution)

As I prepared to leave the house, wearing from a night without much sleep, thanks to the epic battle between Zenne (nervous Nellie) and Kenne (Queen of Manners).  I noticed that my purse felt a little bit heavy.  I also noticed there was some yelling going on inside my purse – and then I realized that Hacıyatmaz (Hah-jee-yacht-mahz) was rocking and rolling his way around the bottom of the purse, bumping into the entire chorus of dancing lady puppets.  You may remember that this is a new puppet – not made of paper – but instead made of wood and very-roly-poly wood at that.  He was causing a lot of bruising and wrinkling of the wax paper and leather puppets – who were mad as hell and not going to take it anymore. Kenne was yelling down into the purse for him to roll on outta there.  Zenne was weeping with nerves and even Hacivad Bey and Yehuda Rebbe were looking, well, a bit unglued.  Karagöz, of course, was taking in the scene from my left shoulder with true glee, taking a siesta of sorts, as everyone else was making the chaos for once.  I wondered if my fairy godmother, Perihan Hanım would make an appearance.   So far, she was a no show.

Ignoring the chaos as best I could, I drove to work, still deciding which of two scarves to wear – both of them lying in the seat next to me.  One was a lavender wool scarf with amazing glittery beads – given to me by two amazing students – very much part of my increasingly eclectic style (as I approach tenure, my personality is coming back out a bit).  The other was a conservative teal, just in case I decided to be more mainstream . Don’t want to freak anyone out.  I had the same debate going on about the earrings.  It’s days like these that I really HATE that clothes and appearance matter so much.  I am so tired about worrying about it.  I fantasized about bringing back the purple hair of my youth.  Of course, all of this was meaningless distraction for the real event that was about to take place in a VERY FORMAL academic meeting room at my university.

A green-tea latte (click image for attribution link)

As the car made the turn onto the highway that skirts the ocean – the light was fantastic and bright.  Breaking my New Year’s resolution to have an anti-Starbuck’s coffee pledge, as they put my friends out of business years ago in the Midwest ( a local coffee roaster) and as they are stupidly expensive, I actually used a drive through to purchase a massive green tea latte which I thought would settle my stomach a bit.  Sipping the frothy green milk, I felt myself relax along the familiar commute, full of curves and turns – but none as lovely as the one that goes by the Ocean for a good long stretch.  As I wound onto the rotary, my green tea latte took a nose dive – and alien-blood-looking green tea latte began to shoot all over the floor of my car as my purse fell over.

Screaming in horror, I yanked my purse out of the way from below the passenger seat, saved the remainder of the overpriced drink and managed not to get into a rotary accident or land the car into the incoming tide.  In this midst of this cacophony, out rolled Hacıyatmaz onto the floor of the car.  And he rolled, back and forth, forth and back – saying – “you may be going up for tenure today, but you cannot forget to nurture your other side, the writer’s side, I will not let you forget.  Don’t forget, don’t forget, don’t forget…” And as if stuck in a loop, he just kept on saying “don’t forget” for the rest of the ride.  Bebe Ruhi, the tiny puppet with Dwarfism (see above in the image), he launched into a series of questions “Why is he saying don’t forget? Maybe you need to not forget something ,what do you think it is? Do you think this means you should give up academia and be a writer if this puppet here is so adamant? But why would you give up something you love and are good at – teaching and doing data analysis?” It went on and on, and I started to feel exhausted.  The puppets commenced a screaming battle – and I decided to take my mind elsewhere – trying to blank it out as best I could.  I got my revenge as I parked the car.

Perihan Hanım was suddenly present.  “Hacıyatmaz and Bebe Ruhi – we value you and even love you – but you need to stay in the car for this one – even if it does smell like spilled green tea latte everywhere.” Waving her magic wand, I was suddenly outside of the car with the puppets – but sans Hacıyatmaz the roly-poly reminder bot.  “Thank you, Perihan Hanım, for taking care of that, now, do you have the power to help me calm down a bit?”  Stroking my shoulder lovingly before she dematerialized into thin wintry air, she said, “I am afraid this is part of the process, you need to do the rest by yourself – just do your best to keep this lot of puppets in order.”

And before I knew it, I was being seated at the head of a long table by the Chairman of the Tenure Committee, trying to ignore Kenne who was making a last-ditch effort to get me to do a complicated bow as if I was in the Sultan’s palace.  I was also trying to ignore the puppets who were all lined up on my shoulders, pulling Karagöz down into the purse so that he would not misbehave on this important day.  Zenne, the nervous Nellie, was making my throat shake a bit as I gave my opening statement, but I noticed that Mercan Bey, the Arabian spice trader, encouraged her to drink a spice-infused relaxation drink which helped a lot after a few minutes.  As the questions rolled in – many easy to field – some a bit harder, I could hear Karagöz weighing in a bit.  When I was asked a truly inconsequential question about a “technology tip sheet” I made for non-tech-savvy senior faculty, he screeched “Really, they are asking THAT? Come on, I mean REALLY who cares about that in the larger scheme of things”  and I did not let it trip me up as I graciously answered the question, though I thought it was a fairly useless one.  As another question rolled in – one that was either designed to test my diplomacy skills or seek support for a particular tenure committee member’s opposition to the growth of the graduate school, he yelled out “Watch out – danger ahead – don’t step in the mess, m’lady!  He wants your head! He wants you dead!” and I only took this as warning to be thoughtful in the quick second I had to compose an answer.

As the hearing went on towards the end point, I felt the presence of Esma, the little hippie puppet, but not through her voice, through the cloud of jasmine and rose petals that were starting to fly out of her ears – this only happens when she is happy and things are going well – really well.  As the committee member to my right asked me “Professor, I can see from how you are talking to us that you are what they call a born teacher – can you tell me how you have developed yourself nonetheless as a teacher here since 2005?” the cloud of flowers thickened, and I had a sense that this was all going to be fine.  After thanking the committee member for her comment, the woman turned to me and said “I look forward to working with you in the future, professor” at which point Esma fainted of happiness and fell splat on the table, flowers and all.  I tried not to notice so that the committee would not think I was responding to internal stimuli, a sure sign of schizophrenia.  The little chorus of dancing ladies was on top of it, though, piling out of the purse behind me and climbing up the chair to cart her away on a cot.

Soon enough the questions were over and I was asked to step out of the room where a short murmuring discussion ensued – I tried to hear what they were saying – but could not.  During these minutes – that seemed like eons –  the puppets focused on restraining Karagöz who was yelling and wriggling like mad.  I think he was pretty anxious.  Hacivad Bey and Yehuda Rebbe were sitting in silence on my shoulders, murmuring prayers.  Esma had recovered and was meditating in earnest for me.  And soon the door swung open – the gregarious chair of the committee emerging with arms akimbo, saying “congratulations!”  As I walked back into the room, I saw Perihan Hanım at the side wall – and she whispered “see, you did it all yourself, I knew you could.”

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