sparking synapses and his fingers on the keyboard, willing words to appear. Finished his courses, he’s now alone with his stack of books and computer, reading for his “Review of Literature” exam and attempting to write the proposal for his dissertation. He plans to explore the concept of
cool
in popular culture, to use Foucault’s methodology toconduct “a genealogy” of cool—its evolution, its ethics, its geopolitics, its links to a political economy; cool as style, McLuhan’s notion of cool … But the words won’t take shape on the page. His head is too connected to his heart. All he can think about is his grandmother—the chemotherapy bombarding her cells, the chemicals shrinking her once robust body; her thick dark hair falling out in clumps into her white porcelain sink. When he talked with his mother last night, her fear filtered through the phone line.
He grabs a sheet of paper out of his printer and picks up his fountain pen. The blue ink flows onto the page, relieving the pent-up yearning in his heart.
Dear Mom and Dad
,
I’m just taking a break from writing. Actually, I am having trouble writing—or with the discipline of writing. I am having trouble focusing and disciplining myself to write. I’m not exactly sure why—I know it’s something very personal though—it has something to do with that deep inner self: I might have spent too much time avoiding it, and now that I have no choice but to face it—I hesitate, out of fear—fear of loneliness, or worse, fear of myself! I know that this is something I have to do, but it’s not easy. Anyway, I sure miss you guys—I would do absolutely anything to be home right now!!!—enjoying sitting around the kitchen—talking and stuff. I have a thousand really good memories of being HOME—I really miss living close to you guys. I am really lucky to have a family like I do—you guys mean everything to me! I can’t wait to get HOME! The days are starting to get really hot—humid—you
remember those Ottawa summers? It’s going to be difficult writing.… Anyway, I just wanted to write you and tell you how much I miss you guys. I am really looking forward to August (maybe July) and getting back home! Take care—talk to you soon. Love, Jeff
By the time the oak trees in the Halifax Commons are tinged rusty orange, Jeff is settled in the study his parents have fixed up for him in their basement. His books and papers piled high on the cherry-wood desk that bears the nicks and scars of his childhood. He’s skimming through an e-mail from Alan Hunt, who is now his dissertation adviser. Jeff’s preliminary proposal is interesting and viable, Dr. Hunt writes, but conducting a genealogy of cool could be difficult: “Like so many other tropes within popular culture, its popularity lies in the fact that it can be deployed in a host of different ways.… Indeed, what are the texts of cool?” Jeff needs to clarify his position, convert his document into something closer to a proposal, develop his ideas on the structure of the thesis; include suggestions about subjects for his two comprehensive exams. Jeff shakes his head at the jumble of words. He can’t clarify, or convert or develop anything—he’s leaving tomorrow for Fredericton where his grandmother lies in an intensive care unit with pneumonia.
The third-floor room has grey walls and smells of disinfectant and medicine. A sunless north-facing window overlooks a parking lot. One side of her thin face against a pale green pillow, she sleeps; an IV pierces her arm, slowly drippingmorphine into her veins. Jeff keeps vigil at her bedside, leans in periodically to listen for her breath; he finger-combs her sparse salt-and-pepper strands of hair, the vestige of two onslaughts of chemo. She wakes, looks around the room, bewildered. She sees him sitting there, and her brown eyes soften. “Jeffy,” she sighs, “you’re here. Watching over your granny.”
He kisses her cheek, its familiar smooth
cool
in popular culture, to use Foucault’s methodology toconduct “a genealogy” of cool—its evolution, its ethics, its geopolitics, its links to a political economy; cool as style, McLuhan’s notion of cool … But the words won’t take shape on the page. His head is too connected to his heart. All he can think about is his grandmother—the chemotherapy bombarding her cells, the chemicals shrinking her once robust body; her thick dark hair falling out in clumps into her white porcelain sink. When he talked with his mother last night, her fear filtered through the phone line.
He grabs a sheet of paper out of his printer and picks up his fountain pen. The blue ink flows onto the page, relieving the pent-up yearning in his heart.
Dear Mom and Dad
,
I’m just taking a break from writing. Actually, I am having trouble writing—or with the discipline of writing. I am having trouble focusing and disciplining myself to write. I’m not exactly sure why—I know it’s something very personal though—it has something to do with that deep inner self: I might have spent too much time avoiding it, and now that I have no choice but to face it—I hesitate, out of fear—fear of loneliness, or worse, fear of myself! I know that this is something I have to do, but it’s not easy. Anyway, I sure miss you guys—I would do absolutely anything to be home right now!!!—enjoying sitting around the kitchen—talking and stuff. I have a thousand really good memories of being HOME—I really miss living close to you guys. I am really lucky to have a family like I do—you guys mean everything to me! I can’t wait to get HOME! The days are starting to get really hot—humid—you
remember those Ottawa summers? It’s going to be difficult writing.… Anyway, I just wanted to write you and tell you how much I miss you guys. I am really looking forward to August (maybe July) and getting back home! Take care—talk to you soon. Love, Jeff
By the time the oak trees in the Halifax Commons are tinged rusty orange, Jeff is settled in the study his parents have fixed up for him in their basement. His books and papers piled high on the cherry-wood desk that bears the nicks and scars of his childhood. He’s skimming through an e-mail from Alan Hunt, who is now his dissertation adviser. Jeff’s preliminary proposal is interesting and viable, Dr. Hunt writes, but conducting a genealogy of cool could be difficult: “Like so many other tropes within popular culture, its popularity lies in the fact that it can be deployed in a host of different ways.… Indeed, what are the texts of cool?” Jeff needs to clarify his position, convert his document into something closer to a proposal, develop his ideas on the structure of the thesis; include suggestions about subjects for his two comprehensive exams. Jeff shakes his head at the jumble of words. He can’t clarify, or convert or develop anything—he’s leaving tomorrow for Fredericton where his grandmother lies in an intensive care unit with pneumonia.
The third-floor room has grey walls and smells of disinfectant and medicine. A sunless north-facing window overlooks a parking lot. One side of her thin face against a pale green pillow, she sleeps; an IV pierces her arm, slowly drippingmorphine into her veins. Jeff keeps vigil at her bedside, leans in periodically to listen for her breath; he finger-combs her sparse salt-and-pepper strands of hair, the vestige of two onslaughts of chemo. She wakes, looks around the room, bewildered. She sees him sitting there, and her brown eyes soften. “Jeffy,” she sighs, “you’re here. Watching over your granny.”
He kisses her cheek, its familiar smooth
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