About Peter

After stints as a trial lawyer and a church worker, Peter Stephens has settled in as a Virginia high school English teacher. Peter has read several books and poems.

He wrote none of the posts below filed under "Passages." Click the link at the end of each post to see it in the context of the author's original post.

Speak the word only

Sweeping judgments can be breathtakingly accurate, and sweeping methods – patterns of those judgments drawn from intuitions over time – are often unfailingly so. Bethany, for instance, who reads without ceasing, has always enjoyed books with great covers.  The sorry reading she has discovered in books with sorry covers established the obverse of this theory for her as well, so that now she simply judges a book by its cover.

Harnessing your intuition can help you see things so-called experts overlook. Years ago I remembered that the Pittsburgh Steelers, who had just beaten the Dallas Cowboys in a Super Bowl, had been the looser team along the sidelines before the game’s kickoff, jumping and cavorting like idiots.  I made a point of looking for the looser team before the following year’s Super Bowl kickoff, and I was rewarded by picking the game’s winner.  I have since applied my “Loose-ometer” on at least twelve occasions, and it has always pointed to the Super Bowl winner, including a couple of notable underdogs.

You must befriend your sixth sense and slowly learn from experience how it whispers to you. It’s all Malcolm Gladwell stuff.  Read Blink and rediscover your intuition for fun and profit.

My final example of intuitive method may become more profitable than betting on Super Bowls. I stumbled on it two years ago after helping Bethany pick colleges. I had wasted a lot of time reading through several thick college guides from U.S. News, College Board, and the like.  Bethany finally settled on a great school, and one that I later realized I could have picked for her by going with my first impression gained from simply speaking the college’s name.

Now I’m putting this intuitive system to use by helping several teens of my relation pick colleges during their junior and senior years. I simply ask them to say the college’s name over and over and to describe the impression it gives. At our extended family’s annual beach trip last summer, I gargled the names of six schools a relation had chosen and urged her to give her highest consideration to Bucknell.  I knew (and still know) nothing about Bucknell, but the name conjures a buck – I see large antlers – and the sound of a knell.  Strong imagery. The letter k – the word’s center, assertive in buck but silent and reserved in knell – seems to endow Bucknell with both yin and yang and to spin the word on the k’s axis into a kind of spiritually enlightened chocolate-and-vanilla swirl.  (Armed with these insights, who would waste time reading about the colleges’ more prosaic endowments described in those fat, overweening guides, or listening to those same colleges’ own self-serving spin?)

And Bucknell’s physiognomy? (I believe our words possess us, and that a word’s pneuma animates our faces as we speak it.) If you say Bucknell slowly, repeatedly, your mouth begins to assert itself and your entire face feels fierce: the first syllable fires out your lips with an air blast, and then the second syllable thrusts out your jaw as your mouth widens slowly, menacingly.  Say it three times: you’ll lower your antlers and charge.

I mean, Bucknell’s so Anglo-Saxon that you want to chase it with “Excuse my French.”

Jack Healey speaks the word at Bucknell

Bucknell since fell by the wayside, alas – I may have discounted the knell connotation in my enthusiasm – but I received some good news today about my relation’s prospects concerning a college that wasn’t in our sights last summer. I responded with this email:

Dear C___: Congratulations! Worcester sounds even better than Bucknell, you know.  Worcester is like Leicester and forecastle – words only the British know how to pronounce, words that remain mysterious, beguiling, and befuddling to your country-bumpkin American more used to rorcesters. Shibboleths, in fact, of culture and high standing.  You can graduate from there and roll your eyes when people mispronounce it. Best of all, I’m not paying the tuition.  Go there!

She’ll probably also get into a few public schools with which I’m more familiar – schools with excellent reputations and low, in-state tuitions but also cursed with ominously pedestrian names.  I hope to steer her away from these, and I trust her parents will see fit to remunerate me when the financial spigot twists open full bore this fall. Affirmation along those lines would encourage me to share my intuitive gift as a consultant to anxious high school upperclassmen and their families outside of my limited sphere.

tion

20120210_1841a

(thus)

If I could ask someone to paint these headaches, I would ask Hieronymus Bosch, channeling Georgia O’Keefe, and working with Mark Rothko’s palette and technique. Something grotesque but suffused in both color and form, fantastic and yet imbedded in the ordinary; sublime, too, but grounded in our physical world.

From (thus).

The Path of Possibility

What if we were to let go completely of the idea that we need a certain amount of bluster or bravado to “promote ourselves” and instead consider how we might let what we love most about our intimate writing lives overflow a bit onto the people around us?

From The Path of Possibility

My Jacob

Borne through all my dreams last night, a date I couldn’t keep: a woman — Diane Rehm, I think — put in for me to play the part of Romeo. But Mike had asked for me to talk the morning of the show. The day arrived. I knew Diane would need to know I couldn’t act the part. Right then I woke, resolved, but never having told Diane about my resolution. I commit to much, and disappointing others makes, for me, a nightmare out of any dream.

But what of this: the dream expresses some desire for both the arts and God: a struggle in my womb that I have touched on many times. And even though it seems to friends a false dilemma now (a misconception, if you will), the day will come, I fear, when I must choose between the two. But then I also hear the smallest voice suggesting that the fight itself will be enough to bond my Jacob and his nightly angel.

John field notes 2d: Unrequited trust

In a certain way, John’s centuries-later chapter divisions work, and the underlying tension in chapters 1 and 2 — the disturbing polyphony of private settings and unclear referents playing above a plainchant of trial-court language (testimony and witnesses) — resolves in a single, diatonic chord: a juxtaposition between Jesus and his new followers:

While he was in Jerusalem for Passover many put their trust in him when they saw the signs that he performed. But Jesus for his part would not trust himself to them. He knew them all, and had no need of evidence from others about anyone, for he himself could tell what was in people. (John 2:23 – 25, REB)

The many needed evidence; Jesus didn’t.  The many put their trust in Jesus, but Jesus would not trust himself to them.

John’s Jesus’ mission is an introvert’s outreach, roughly speaking. Field note speaking.

Each stop in Jesus’ campaign so far has sorted people in unexpected ways: by what one knew (Nathanael and the reader), by how one understood an ambiguity (the Jews and disciples), by what room one was in (the wedding). The wedding in Cana alone involves four circles of intimacy: the master of the feast who celebrates Jesus’ miracle without knowing that a miracle has occurred, the servants who know of the miracle but not of Jesus’ conversation with his mother, and his mother, whose sketchy colloquy with Jesus demonstrates she knows all.  I am in a fourth circle, closer to the center than the master of the feast and the servants but less intimate than Mary since the text’s first read shuts me out. I inhabit an uneasy ring between the inner and outer rings.

And now, at the end of chapter 2, this policy of concealment is revealed. When Jesus is direct in the other gospels, it’s often only by a disciple’s request. The requesting disciple also risked a reproof for his lack of understanding. Likewise this text of John’s, which describes itself as testimony, feels most reluctant when that testimony is clear. And what does that say about me, the reader?

John 2 feels like the melismatic high Middle Ages resolving into the vocal articulation of the Renaissance.  It feels like the isorhythmic novels of Sterne and Fielding resolving into the thick-plotted Victorian novel.  It feels like a concession — something that must be said to move on.

[I'm reading John's gospel. My reactions here vacillate between notes -- a list of impressions -- and something less sketchy. A note on nomenclature: the note number in my post's title indicates the chapter of John's material I'm reacting to. A title's letter, though, differentiates the post from earlier posts about that chapter. "John field note 2c," then, is my third post about something in John's second chapter. N.B.: 12a may precede 3d: I skip around.]