Thursday, July 13, 2006
cool james sallis quote # 2
"we live metaphorically, striving always to match our lives to images we've accepted or imagined for them -- family man, middle American, true believer, gangster -- contriving these containers, a succession of them, that preserve us, define us, that keep us from spilling out and give us shape, but rarely fit." -- from eye of the cricket
Monday, June 26, 2006
recommended reading: the long legged fly by james sallis
so. my idea of math: love of books + boring everyday existence + voracious search for new favorite books + blog = the occasional book review.
i recently stumbled across a detective noir (in more ways than one) series that begins with the long legged fly. in addition to featuring as it's main character black private investigator lew griffin, the book provides the reader with a perfectly nuanced and accurate snapshot of life in new orleans, at various points in the character's and the city's history.
the book begins in 1960 with a murder scene. lew is the murderer. he is a vigilante who kills the white men who rape and murder little black girls and boys. this scene, as with all the others in the book, is written so simply and sparsely that not one word is superfluous or unnecessary. each word of dialogue, each description of body positioning or physical surrounding is tight, yet incredibly apt at producing a reaction in the reader.
we follow lew, who we know early on is a dangerous man with a sense of justice, as he struggles to make ends meet as a PI in 1964. we see his shattered family -- wife and son no longer with him, he has a relationship with a hooker named laverne. we see that he likes to drink. we see how he is sought out by people who need to find people, and we see him find a prominent woman who is broken by the pressure of her life as a civil rights activist. in 1970 where the book continues, lew has built his business up and doesn't have to struggle to eat anymore. he still sees laverne. he is older, more mature, less likely to commit violence. he observes more and acts less. a black christian family seeks his help finding their daughter, and he does -- right before she dies of a drug overdose inflicted by her white, older lover. jump to 1984. lew has gotten back with his wife and they have divorced again. he has suffered an extreme psychotic break caused by alcoholism. he awakens in a hospital, and is released into a halfway house. he starts a relationship, a real one. he makes a friend in the halfway house, and the friend asks him to find his sister. he does. he saves her from what would have probably been a very bad fate. his lover leaves, unable to handle the violence and racism that plague the city. 1990. lew has become a writer, almost by accident. he writes from his own experience as a PI. one day his ex wife calls. she has not heard from their son, who teaches english at columbia in new york. he knows, as the book comes to an end, that he will not find his son, that he is gone.
you may be crying out "ack! you bitch! you have so many spoilers in this post that it stinks worse than two week old household garbage on a hot day." not so, gentle reader. for the magic of sallis' writing is that the plot seems to be only a vehicle for telling the parallel stories of lew griffin and new orleans, and how they evolve (or devolve) together. he captures with his laconic prose and dialogue the flavor of new orleans, the fact of blackness, the metamorphoses of personal growth and personal degeneration. he understands that history, personal or social, does not move in one progressive direction; lew and new orleans gain and they lose and they make circular progress, if any. sallins creates a character that is both archetypical and anti-archetypical; just when you think you know lew, he changes.
how much do i recommend this book? i have already ordered every other book in the series from the library. if you like detective stories that run to the more sophisticated side (no jonathan kellerman or tami hoag readers, please -- they aren't even in this guy's stratosphere) this book is for you.
favorite quote from the book: "either it's only in the relationships we manage that we live at all, or we must think that in order to manage them in the first place. we go on trying not just to survive, but to find reasons, such as love, that allow us to betray ourslves into choosing survival."
i recently stumbled across a detective noir (in more ways than one) series that begins with the long legged fly. in addition to featuring as it's main character black private investigator lew griffin, the book provides the reader with a perfectly nuanced and accurate snapshot of life in new orleans, at various points in the character's and the city's history.
the book begins in 1960 with a murder scene. lew is the murderer. he is a vigilante who kills the white men who rape and murder little black girls and boys. this scene, as with all the others in the book, is written so simply and sparsely that not one word is superfluous or unnecessary. each word of dialogue, each description of body positioning or physical surrounding is tight, yet incredibly apt at producing a reaction in the reader.
we follow lew, who we know early on is a dangerous man with a sense of justice, as he struggles to make ends meet as a PI in 1964. we see his shattered family -- wife and son no longer with him, he has a relationship with a hooker named laverne. we see that he likes to drink. we see how he is sought out by people who need to find people, and we see him find a prominent woman who is broken by the pressure of her life as a civil rights activist. in 1970 where the book continues, lew has built his business up and doesn't have to struggle to eat anymore. he still sees laverne. he is older, more mature, less likely to commit violence. he observes more and acts less. a black christian family seeks his help finding their daughter, and he does -- right before she dies of a drug overdose inflicted by her white, older lover. jump to 1984. lew has gotten back with his wife and they have divorced again. he has suffered an extreme psychotic break caused by alcoholism. he awakens in a hospital, and is released into a halfway house. he starts a relationship, a real one. he makes a friend in the halfway house, and the friend asks him to find his sister. he does. he saves her from what would have probably been a very bad fate. his lover leaves, unable to handle the violence and racism that plague the city. 1990. lew has become a writer, almost by accident. he writes from his own experience as a PI. one day his ex wife calls. she has not heard from their son, who teaches english at columbia in new york. he knows, as the book comes to an end, that he will not find his son, that he is gone.
you may be crying out "ack! you bitch! you have so many spoilers in this post that it stinks worse than two week old household garbage on a hot day." not so, gentle reader. for the magic of sallis' writing is that the plot seems to be only a vehicle for telling the parallel stories of lew griffin and new orleans, and how they evolve (or devolve) together. he captures with his laconic prose and dialogue the flavor of new orleans, the fact of blackness, the metamorphoses of personal growth and personal degeneration. he understands that history, personal or social, does not move in one progressive direction; lew and new orleans gain and they lose and they make circular progress, if any. sallins creates a character that is both archetypical and anti-archetypical; just when you think you know lew, he changes.
how much do i recommend this book? i have already ordered every other book in the series from the library. if you like detective stories that run to the more sophisticated side (no jonathan kellerman or tami hoag readers, please -- they aren't even in this guy's stratosphere) this book is for you.
favorite quote from the book: "either it's only in the relationships we manage that we live at all, or we must think that in order to manage them in the first place. we go on trying not just to survive, but to find reasons, such as love, that allow us to betray ourslves into choosing survival."
Friday, June 23, 2006
the end is near.... or, reminiscing
after today, i have exactly fourteen work days left at my current place of employment. this is very exciting in MANY ways (the first, foremost, and best thing is that i will no longer have to talk to, look at, interact with, or think about my oft-mentioned crazy, annoying, and maddening boss). however, as is often the case when a period of one's life comes to a close, i am starting to reminisce about the good times, the happy people, the (usually) functional and clean ladies' washroom in our building -- in short, i am dwelling on the reasons that it has taken me so long (more than a year since i first started thinking about quitting) to make the decision to leave.
reason 1: coworkers. i like my coworkers. i realized a long time ago how lucky i am to be able to say that. many of my friends LOATHE their coworkers, and have to deal with nasty nasty people every single day. by virtue of the fact that we are all crammed into a tiny space without any cubicles, we spend a lot of the day talking about politics, music, books, whatever. sex or some variation of it invariably comes up. someone's size is insulted, someone's orientation is questioned, someone's propensity to burst into giggles at the slightest mention of nether-parts is ridiculed. hilarity invariably ensues. it occurs to me sometimes, as i drive to work, or relate some funny-ness to chris, or sit on the couch after the commute that i will miss all of these people very very much.
reason 2: free parking. near downtown. 'nuff said.
reason 3: flexible hours. i basically get to come in whenever i want, as long as i'm here eight hours a day. it makes it easier on chris and me to commute in to town from the boonies.
reason 4: commuting with chris. i HATE the commute. i cuss. i spit. i make profane hand gestures. but i LOVE commuting with chris. it's two hours a day of uninterrupted time with him. in the morning, he puts his hand on my thigh, and i put my hand on his, and sometimes we talk and sometimes we don't, depending on just how sleep deprived we are. we put on the fox morning show, and make disgusted noises when one of the deejays says something too stupid for words to address. we see sunrises together, and we notice all the early morning weirdos who are up at the same awful time that we are -- the lady who takes her morning walk backwards, the girl who wears scrubs waiting at the bus stop, the guy doing tai chi in the park. in the afternoon, i tell him about my day. sometimes this takes five minutes, and other times it takes the entire freaking commute home, depending on my level of outrage. he tells me about his day. i alert him if there's someone turning in our lane or if he's about to hit a pedestrian (which he's done before -- you really have to watch that guy). we usually hold hands during all this (except at those moments when driving necessitates the use of both hands). it's good quality couple time, and it's time that i really appreciate. thinking about him commuting to work all by his lonesome self, not being able to use the HOV lane, not having anyone to hold hands with, makes me really sad. and oddly, it makes me feel guilty. maybe because i am probably going to be unemployed for the next three months? yeah, that could be it. anyway, i am going to miss that time with him more than i could have ever imagined. damn it all to hell and back.
reason 5: washroom. one toilet. roomy. clean. good hand soap. this is the washroom i will miss. the building administrator is making it a bit easier to leave, however, since the washroom is kind of dirty right now, and smelly, and there is some algae growing in the fresh water tank that's coming out when the toilet is flushed. so this is really only half a reason right now.
reason 6: local shopkeepers. when my brain makes an exit from my cranium, which it does regularly due to the ridiculously boring nature of my work, i get out of the office and spend some of my hard earned cash at local shops. aveda salon. body shop. chocolatier. ah, yes, the chocolatier. i love it. there's this red-haired chick who works there and she knows me by now, and we chat about everything and she gives me free chocolate. i'm going to miss her.
reason 7: money. as poorly paid as this job is, it pays something for god's sake.
reason 8: volunteers. we work with a lot of volunteers. some of them are idiots. some of them are irresponsible. but most of them are interesting people who i'm glad to have met. they come from all different backgrounds and cultures. they are young, so they keep my old ass down with the street lingo. they are enthusiastic about being here, which warms the cockles of my cynical and sick-of-this-shit-job heart. i'm going to miss meeting so nice, young, and bright people.
okay.... i think that's enough. i am already all depressed and maudlin about leaving. if i keep dwelling on all the things i am going to miss, i might, in a fit of temporary insanity, retract my resignation and decide to stay here. thank god that we have already hired and started training my replacement. it would be a little difficult to explain to her that i've changed my mind.
why is it that change is so hard? i know that i want, and probably need, a major change in my professional life. and even though my brain knows that, my gut is sad about it. my gut is also worried and anxious. if my gut had fingernails, it would be chewing on them. if my cut had cuticles, it would be picking at them. so on top of sadness about leaving some very good things in my life, i am dealing with anxiety about the lack of career certainty in my future. i have basically been promised a job in october, but what if that doesn't work out? i have promised to work on my book during this three month hiatus, but what if i fail myself? jesus, mary, and fucking joseph, where is pollyanna when you need her ass? WHY AM I SO NEGATIVE???
i want to be excited about leaving, and i am, but in the way that one is excited about getting rid of the mold in one's fridge. yeah. i don't have mold anymore. but what do i have to look forward to? what's in my fridge now? NOW MY FRIDGE IS EMPTY!!!! i got beer and mustard and empty shelves. and i don't even like beer.
reason 1: coworkers. i like my coworkers. i realized a long time ago how lucky i am to be able to say that. many of my friends LOATHE their coworkers, and have to deal with nasty nasty people every single day. by virtue of the fact that we are all crammed into a tiny space without any cubicles, we spend a lot of the day talking about politics, music, books, whatever. sex or some variation of it invariably comes up. someone's size is insulted, someone's orientation is questioned, someone's propensity to burst into giggles at the slightest mention of nether-parts is ridiculed. hilarity invariably ensues. it occurs to me sometimes, as i drive to work, or relate some funny-ness to chris, or sit on the couch after the commute that i will miss all of these people very very much.
reason 2: free parking. near downtown. 'nuff said.
reason 3: flexible hours. i basically get to come in whenever i want, as long as i'm here eight hours a day. it makes it easier on chris and me to commute in to town from the boonies.
reason 4: commuting with chris. i HATE the commute. i cuss. i spit. i make profane hand gestures. but i LOVE commuting with chris. it's two hours a day of uninterrupted time with him. in the morning, he puts his hand on my thigh, and i put my hand on his, and sometimes we talk and sometimes we don't, depending on just how sleep deprived we are. we put on the fox morning show, and make disgusted noises when one of the deejays says something too stupid for words to address. we see sunrises together, and we notice all the early morning weirdos who are up at the same awful time that we are -- the lady who takes her morning walk backwards, the girl who wears scrubs waiting at the bus stop, the guy doing tai chi in the park. in the afternoon, i tell him about my day. sometimes this takes five minutes, and other times it takes the entire freaking commute home, depending on my level of outrage. he tells me about his day. i alert him if there's someone turning in our lane or if he's about to hit a pedestrian (which he's done before -- you really have to watch that guy). we usually hold hands during all this (except at those moments when driving necessitates the use of both hands). it's good quality couple time, and it's time that i really appreciate. thinking about him commuting to work all by his lonesome self, not being able to use the HOV lane, not having anyone to hold hands with, makes me really sad. and oddly, it makes me feel guilty. maybe because i am probably going to be unemployed for the next three months? yeah, that could be it. anyway, i am going to miss that time with him more than i could have ever imagined. damn it all to hell and back.
reason 5: washroom. one toilet. roomy. clean. good hand soap. this is the washroom i will miss. the building administrator is making it a bit easier to leave, however, since the washroom is kind of dirty right now, and smelly, and there is some algae growing in the fresh water tank that's coming out when the toilet is flushed. so this is really only half a reason right now.
reason 6: local shopkeepers. when my brain makes an exit from my cranium, which it does regularly due to the ridiculously boring nature of my work, i get out of the office and spend some of my hard earned cash at local shops. aveda salon. body shop. chocolatier. ah, yes, the chocolatier. i love it. there's this red-haired chick who works there and she knows me by now, and we chat about everything and she gives me free chocolate. i'm going to miss her.
reason 7: money. as poorly paid as this job is, it pays something for god's sake.
reason 8: volunteers. we work with a lot of volunteers. some of them are idiots. some of them are irresponsible. but most of them are interesting people who i'm glad to have met. they come from all different backgrounds and cultures. they are young, so they keep my old ass down with the street lingo. they are enthusiastic about being here, which warms the cockles of my cynical and sick-of-this-shit-job heart. i'm going to miss meeting so nice, young, and bright people.
okay.... i think that's enough. i am already all depressed and maudlin about leaving. if i keep dwelling on all the things i am going to miss, i might, in a fit of temporary insanity, retract my resignation and decide to stay here. thank god that we have already hired and started training my replacement. it would be a little difficult to explain to her that i've changed my mind.
why is it that change is so hard? i know that i want, and probably need, a major change in my professional life. and even though my brain knows that, my gut is sad about it. my gut is also worried and anxious. if my gut had fingernails, it would be chewing on them. if my cut had cuticles, it would be picking at them. so on top of sadness about leaving some very good things in my life, i am dealing with anxiety about the lack of career certainty in my future. i have basically been promised a job in october, but what if that doesn't work out? i have promised to work on my book during this three month hiatus, but what if i fail myself? jesus, mary, and fucking joseph, where is pollyanna when you need her ass? WHY AM I SO NEGATIVE???
i want to be excited about leaving, and i am, but in the way that one is excited about getting rid of the mold in one's fridge. yeah. i don't have mold anymore. but what do i have to look forward to? what's in my fridge now? NOW MY FRIDGE IS EMPTY!!!! i got beer and mustard and empty shelves. and i don't even like beer.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
god, i'm boring
wonder why i haven't posted in a long time? see title. you know what my mama said? she said if you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all, so i haven't. the majority of my thoughts lately have been nasty, insidious, self-flagellating (and NOT the good kind of flagellation) ones about myself. so.... do i have anything nice to say yet? nope. not at all. check back soon.
Monday, May 15, 2006
neurasthenia, mother fuckers, neurasthenia
don't say i never did nothing for ya -- i've contributed to your vocabulary, if nothing else. unless you're too lazy to look it up. yeah, you didn't look it up, did you? alrighty then. neurasthenia: a psychological disorder characterized by chronic fatigue and weakness, loss of memory, and generalized aches and pains, formerly thought to result from exhaustion of the nervous system. no longer in scientific use. well, it should still be in use, goddamn it. for the last almost two weeks straight, i have been fighting almost constant stomach cramps and nausea, on and off headaches, bleary eyeballs, and a sore back (read: generalized aches and pains). let's break them all down, shall we? stomach cramps and nausea -- work related stress causing ulcer. on and off headaches -- work related stress causing abnormally high blood pressure. bleary eyeballs -- work related stress causing sleep deprivation and red, puffy eyes. sore back -- work related stress causing neck and back muscle spasms. freaking excellent. now kiddies, what's the common thread here? could it be.... work?!!?!?! damn my need for money and damn capitalism!!!!
in all seriousness, my mood is more serious than i am letting on. continuing with the theme of my last post, my work life has degraded into something dark and ugly and slimy and smelly and horrifying and my conscious self is coiled up, huddling in a corner of my brain, arms wrapped around knees, rocking back and forth, muttering under her breath to just make it all go away. it really is an interesting condition/state of mind. there are some people who would undoubtedly be thrilled to have a job like mine -- sit at a desk all day in a comfortable chair doing work that while demanding is not particularly hard. i am sure that there are some people out there who could deal with and maybe even thrive on the crazy, self-absorbed, immoral boss and the steady stream of complaints and the office politics. however, i am not in that group of some people. for whatever reason (my own limitations, childhood traumas, etc.) i cannot seem to make it past the negative points of my job that stab into my body like ice picks. i feel like a dark cloud is hovering above my head, putting a crushing pressure on my shoulders, and i can't get away from it. yet, i am self-aware enough to realize that this is a panic/horror of my own making. i am in control of my emotions and my thoughts, and i am the one who is dwelling on the bad and the ugly rather than trying to accentuate the positive.
i believe that a portion of this state of mind arises out of a mid-twenties crisis. in august, i will officially be a quarter of a century old. for most of my life, i was ahead of the class. i started college at 16 with a 4.0 GPA. i finished university with honors and a double major at 20. i finished my master's at 22 -- sooner, if i wasn't such a lazy ass. but now.... well, i have been working at a doomed and dysfunctional non-profit as an administrator for the last two years. i spent all my savings immigrating to canada. while i learned some useful adminstrative stuff (nifty tricks on excel, how to use a database, the difference between a statement of claim and a statement of defense, etc.), in my mind i have not learned about or gained any new, different, or marketable skills. i have got to get out of this place, but i don't have another job lined up. nor do i really want another job. jobs suck. i want a career (note previously mentioned trite i-want-to-be-a-writer post) but i have no idea how to start it. especially given the geographic limitations placed upon me by my boyfriend's very secure and well-paid union job that he probably couldn't get anywhere else in north america. (that sentence refers to the fact that the job market is absolute crap in vancouver for anyone other than a skilled tradesperson which i am not and which i am not interested in becoming.) said wonderful and spectacular boyfriend has offered to support me financially if i want to quit working for a while to finish the book. he is so freaking amazing. how many other boyfriends would offer to do that? when i asked him why he has so much faith in me, he said, "i think it's great that you feel passionate about something and you're trying to go after it. and i believe that you can do it and that it will be great and if you don't do it now, you'll regret it when you're older." oh, getting teary eyed now. so, other than a man who believes in me and loves me and supports me and is the bestest person i've ever known in my life, what am i left with? (don't get me wrong -- i am SO thankful for chris in my life that i really wouldn't have any regrets if he were the only good thing in it, but i feel that i need to follow this panic attack to its logical end.) a flimsy and nascent book idea, no time to write it, and even if i did write it, what about publishing it? and even if i did publish it, what about getting paid for it? and what about the next one? and what about buying a house and maybe one day having a dog or a kid and a retirement fund? what the fucking hell am i doing with my life??? aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhhh. oh, god, my stomach hurts.
in all seriousness, my mood is more serious than i am letting on. continuing with the theme of my last post, my work life has degraded into something dark and ugly and slimy and smelly and horrifying and my conscious self is coiled up, huddling in a corner of my brain, arms wrapped around knees, rocking back and forth, muttering under her breath to just make it all go away. it really is an interesting condition/state of mind. there are some people who would undoubtedly be thrilled to have a job like mine -- sit at a desk all day in a comfortable chair doing work that while demanding is not particularly hard. i am sure that there are some people out there who could deal with and maybe even thrive on the crazy, self-absorbed, immoral boss and the steady stream of complaints and the office politics. however, i am not in that group of some people. for whatever reason (my own limitations, childhood traumas, etc.) i cannot seem to make it past the negative points of my job that stab into my body like ice picks. i feel like a dark cloud is hovering above my head, putting a crushing pressure on my shoulders, and i can't get away from it. yet, i am self-aware enough to realize that this is a panic/horror of my own making. i am in control of my emotions and my thoughts, and i am the one who is dwelling on the bad and the ugly rather than trying to accentuate the positive.
i believe that a portion of this state of mind arises out of a mid-twenties crisis. in august, i will officially be a quarter of a century old. for most of my life, i was ahead of the class. i started college at 16 with a 4.0 GPA. i finished university with honors and a double major at 20. i finished my master's at 22 -- sooner, if i wasn't such a lazy ass. but now.... well, i have been working at a doomed and dysfunctional non-profit as an administrator for the last two years. i spent all my savings immigrating to canada. while i learned some useful adminstrative stuff (nifty tricks on excel, how to use a database, the difference between a statement of claim and a statement of defense, etc.), in my mind i have not learned about or gained any new, different, or marketable skills. i have got to get out of this place, but i don't have another job lined up. nor do i really want another job. jobs suck. i want a career (note previously mentioned trite i-want-to-be-a-writer post) but i have no idea how to start it. especially given the geographic limitations placed upon me by my boyfriend's very secure and well-paid union job that he probably couldn't get anywhere else in north america. (that sentence refers to the fact that the job market is absolute crap in vancouver for anyone other than a skilled tradesperson which i am not and which i am not interested in becoming.) said wonderful and spectacular boyfriend has offered to support me financially if i want to quit working for a while to finish the book. he is so freaking amazing. how many other boyfriends would offer to do that? when i asked him why he has so much faith in me, he said, "i think it's great that you feel passionate about something and you're trying to go after it. and i believe that you can do it and that it will be great and if you don't do it now, you'll regret it when you're older." oh, getting teary eyed now. so, other than a man who believes in me and loves me and supports me and is the bestest person i've ever known in my life, what am i left with? (don't get me wrong -- i am SO thankful for chris in my life that i really wouldn't have any regrets if he were the only good thing in it, but i feel that i need to follow this panic attack to its logical end.) a flimsy and nascent book idea, no time to write it, and even if i did write it, what about publishing it? and even if i did publish it, what about getting paid for it? and what about the next one? and what about buying a house and maybe one day having a dog or a kid and a retirement fund? what the fucking hell am i doing with my life??? aaaarrrrgggghhhhhhhhh. oh, god, my stomach hurts.
Monday, May 08, 2006
nudity, sexuality, and violence
i've just finished reading a recent post from a friend/coworker that got my thinkin' cogs slowly grinding (a miracle on a monday morning after five hours of sleep, and after i woke up to a mysterious and painful bump on my head -- mayhap chris decided i'm more work than i'm worth and attempted to elbow me to death in the wee hours of the morning?). i only read the goddamned thing because he promised scenes with coarse language and sexuality. boy, was i disappointed to find NOT ONE cuss word and no smooching, groping, or flashing either. false advertising. not only did this post make me think thoughts that are entirely too deep, it also got me wayyyyy too emotional.
some persistent themes included: the horrific myopia of our boss (not literally -- he's deaf, not blind), the family-like emotional and psychological ties of affection (as in, we like each other, mostly) and dysfunction among and between the office staff, and the general feeling of professional castration and uselessness that our organization often fosters. boy, i hope i don't get dueced for this post. good thing my boss is a technophobe. anyway. i feel that writing about themes 1 and 2 would probably fuck me up this early in the morning, so by default, i'm gonna talk about theme 3. now, the coworker who got me thinking about all this stuff definitely has the shittiest job in the office -- he is/was the administrative assistant to our executive director (it's a little unclear exactly what my coworker's position is now, as we have added yet another staff member with an ambiguous catch all job title). he is/was responsible for loads and loads of unnecessary typing, answering the phones, looking up bus routes for our erstwhile director, and a pile of other random and unpredictable things. his input was not wanted or required, in spite of the fact that he's fairly smart (though a pinko commie -- we can't really take him seriously, then, can we?). said coworker is understandably fed up -- when you eat a diet of shitcakes and shitballs and shitsticks all day everyday, you tend to get full fairly quickly. however, thinking about his plight got me thinking about the plight of others in the office. at the apparent opposite end of the spectrum are myself and our IT/finance manager. we have 'held the ear' of the boss for the longest time, have been here the longest (bless our hearts), and therefore have earned certain privileges. however, though i am dubbed the operations manager, i do not have the authority to make decisions on even the smallest points of policy, or even the smallest points of operations. the guy who is/was working as the admin assistant was supposed to be my 'second in command' as far as operations are concerned, and he was co-opted by my boss, and now i am doing the job alone. which is fine, in principle, but really, this job is best shared by two people. that's how it was in the past, and that's how it was when our little organization was operating at peak efficiency. so that's my cross to bear -- even though i can talk to the boss, and sometimes have him listen to me, he only listens when i give him answers he wants to hear. so of course, it makes me feel a bit like the office bitch -- i deal with the consequences of outdated policy or our director's inaction/missteps. as for the finance/IT manager, he is often asked to literally make up budgets, to shuffle money from our director's personal account into our office account, and to make all of this awful accounting look like it's on the up and up. he doesn't get to protest. he doesn't get to decide anything. the boss says jump for the money, and he has to ask how high. also, he is supposed to be working on a dedicated server to streamline our IT.... our website crashes all the time because our shared server can't handle the traffic, and we are running two databases, which causes all sorts of errors. but, our boss won't earmark any money to purchase a shared server. it's absurd. so the IT guy has to listen to all of us bitch about the IT system, when he isn't given the budget to buy what we need to fix the problems. our volunteer manager has a pretty decent gig, though she has to explain why it is that volunteers sometimes don't show up or change their schedules -- obviously she is doing something wrong when college students and teenagers decide to sleep in or fuck or anything fun like that instead of showing up for their volunteer work. our publicity/fundraising person has to write drafts and drafts and drafts of grants, only to be told that the project sucks and have to start again. she can't publish any posters or ads or anything because she doesn't have a budget either. each of these problems arises out of one source: the b-o-s-s. he has managed through his manipulation and his obtusity (is that a word?) and his awful awfulness to kill the spirit of not just my coworker who talked about it on his blog, but every staff member in this office.
now, i know that i said above that i was going to talk about theme 3, and my concluding sentence looks a lot like theme 1, but the two are inextricable from each other. having a boss who treats you like a child, who patronizes you and uses your labor like an abused sex toy to be taken out for his own gratification at his will and leisure (see, i got in some sexual content after all) is incredibly demoralizing. hold on. before you accuse me of white, lower-middle class self-pity, i do recognize that having an office job, no matter how shitty, is preferable to picking cotton in a hot field all day or cleaning out shit buckets, or whatever, consider that i do realize there are much worse jobs out there and i am by no means implying otherwise. i'm just trying to articulate the effects of working at a place where the boss is like a little dictator. in spite of the fact that ALL of us in the office have a bachelor's degree or better (two of us have master's), in spite of the fact that most of us have participated or directed meaningful social or political actions, in spite of the fact that we are all pretty darn decent, smart, and worthy human beings, we are not treated as such. and not only does this have an effect on our senses of self on a personal level, but it also has a devastating consequence for our senses of self on a professional level. i mean, how do you view your professional self when you have gotten what seems like so very little professional development? how do you view your professional self when you have no room for promotion? how do you view your professional self when your ideas are consistently pooped upon? how do you view your personal self when your boss refers to the royal "we" in a way that dehumanizes and devalues you? how do you view your professional self when you only exist at the office to serve the whim of another human being? you start to view yourself as expendable, as fairly useless, and you start to be afraid. you start to wonder if you would be able to cut it at a 'real' job, you start to think about your resume and how few skills you have acquired during your tenure at this place. your professional self shrinks into a little ball of apprehension and ennui. so... even though that effect is not so awful has having your fingers hacked off by a machete while cutting down sugarcane or not sleeping because of spasms in your back caused by ten hours of heavy lifting, it is there and it is significant, and for most of us, it really sucks.
now then. are you as depressed as me yet? i figure you must be. you're either depressed cause you can relate to the stuff i've said or you're depressed cause you've just wasted ten minutes of your life reading this shit and you're thinking that humanity is doomed if self-interested, sniveling little bitches like me populate the north american work force. in either case, i have to pat myself on the back for a job well done.
some persistent themes included: the horrific myopia of our boss (not literally -- he's deaf, not blind), the family-like emotional and psychological ties of affection (as in, we like each other, mostly) and dysfunction among and between the office staff, and the general feeling of professional castration and uselessness that our organization often fosters. boy, i hope i don't get dueced for this post. good thing my boss is a technophobe. anyway. i feel that writing about themes 1 and 2 would probably fuck me up this early in the morning, so by default, i'm gonna talk about theme 3. now, the coworker who got me thinking about all this stuff definitely has the shittiest job in the office -- he is/was the administrative assistant to our executive director (it's a little unclear exactly what my coworker's position is now, as we have added yet another staff member with an ambiguous catch all job title). he is/was responsible for loads and loads of unnecessary typing, answering the phones, looking up bus routes for our erstwhile director, and a pile of other random and unpredictable things. his input was not wanted or required, in spite of the fact that he's fairly smart (though a pinko commie -- we can't really take him seriously, then, can we?). said coworker is understandably fed up -- when you eat a diet of shitcakes and shitballs and shitsticks all day everyday, you tend to get full fairly quickly. however, thinking about his plight got me thinking about the plight of others in the office. at the apparent opposite end of the spectrum are myself and our IT/finance manager. we have 'held the ear' of the boss for the longest time, have been here the longest (bless our hearts), and therefore have earned certain privileges. however, though i am dubbed the operations manager, i do not have the authority to make decisions on even the smallest points of policy, or even the smallest points of operations. the guy who is/was working as the admin assistant was supposed to be my 'second in command' as far as operations are concerned, and he was co-opted by my boss, and now i am doing the job alone. which is fine, in principle, but really, this job is best shared by two people. that's how it was in the past, and that's how it was when our little organization was operating at peak efficiency. so that's my cross to bear -- even though i can talk to the boss, and sometimes have him listen to me, he only listens when i give him answers he wants to hear. so of course, it makes me feel a bit like the office bitch -- i deal with the consequences of outdated policy or our director's inaction/missteps. as for the finance/IT manager, he is often asked to literally make up budgets, to shuffle money from our director's personal account into our office account, and to make all of this awful accounting look like it's on the up and up. he doesn't get to protest. he doesn't get to decide anything. the boss says jump for the money, and he has to ask how high. also, he is supposed to be working on a dedicated server to streamline our IT.... our website crashes all the time because our shared server can't handle the traffic, and we are running two databases, which causes all sorts of errors. but, our boss won't earmark any money to purchase a shared server. it's absurd. so the IT guy has to listen to all of us bitch about the IT system, when he isn't given the budget to buy what we need to fix the problems. our volunteer manager has a pretty decent gig, though she has to explain why it is that volunteers sometimes don't show up or change their schedules -- obviously she is doing something wrong when college students and teenagers decide to sleep in or fuck or anything fun like that instead of showing up for their volunteer work. our publicity/fundraising person has to write drafts and drafts and drafts of grants, only to be told that the project sucks and have to start again. she can't publish any posters or ads or anything because she doesn't have a budget either. each of these problems arises out of one source: the b-o-s-s. he has managed through his manipulation and his obtusity (is that a word?) and his awful awfulness to kill the spirit of not just my coworker who talked about it on his blog, but every staff member in this office.
now, i know that i said above that i was going to talk about theme 3, and my concluding sentence looks a lot like theme 1, but the two are inextricable from each other. having a boss who treats you like a child, who patronizes you and uses your labor like an abused sex toy to be taken out for his own gratification at his will and leisure (see, i got in some sexual content after all) is incredibly demoralizing. hold on. before you accuse me of white, lower-middle class self-pity, i do recognize that having an office job, no matter how shitty, is preferable to picking cotton in a hot field all day or cleaning out shit buckets, or whatever, consider that i do realize there are much worse jobs out there and i am by no means implying otherwise. i'm just trying to articulate the effects of working at a place where the boss is like a little dictator. in spite of the fact that ALL of us in the office have a bachelor's degree or better (two of us have master's), in spite of the fact that most of us have participated or directed meaningful social or political actions, in spite of the fact that we are all pretty darn decent, smart, and worthy human beings, we are not treated as such. and not only does this have an effect on our senses of self on a personal level, but it also has a devastating consequence for our senses of self on a professional level. i mean, how do you view your professional self when you have gotten what seems like so very little professional development? how do you view your professional self when you have no room for promotion? how do you view your professional self when your ideas are consistently pooped upon? how do you view your personal self when your boss refers to the royal "we" in a way that dehumanizes and devalues you? how do you view your professional self when you only exist at the office to serve the whim of another human being? you start to view yourself as expendable, as fairly useless, and you start to be afraid. you start to wonder if you would be able to cut it at a 'real' job, you start to think about your resume and how few skills you have acquired during your tenure at this place. your professional self shrinks into a little ball of apprehension and ennui. so... even though that effect is not so awful has having your fingers hacked off by a machete while cutting down sugarcane or not sleeping because of spasms in your back caused by ten hours of heavy lifting, it is there and it is significant, and for most of us, it really sucks.
now then. are you as depressed as me yet? i figure you must be. you're either depressed cause you can relate to the stuff i've said or you're depressed cause you've just wasted ten minutes of your life reading this shit and you're thinking that humanity is doomed if self-interested, sniveling little bitches like me populate the north american work force. in either case, i have to pat myself on the back for a job well done.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
dum de de dum dum
well, it's happening already. barely eight pages and three character sketches long, and already i am starting to do with my current 'book' project what i have done with every other intended book in the history of me -- thinking that the idea is crap, that it's so been done before, and that i am a stupid fuck for believing i could ever write something interesting, creative or good enough to be self-published, much less paid for by a publisher. sucks, sucks, sucks. this after a blitz where i wrote pages and pages without even having to stop and think about them, this after a moment of i-can-totally-do-this certainty. ah, what a difference a sleep makes. don't really know what to do here -- even though i definitely write for pleasure and escapism (notice i don't write for literary value -- i have no literary delusions of grandeur -- i just want to write fun, entertaining pulp fiction, i want to write the kind of books that i have read and loved and consumed like crack for my entire life) i am also writing because i want to make a living as a writer. shudder. that is just ever so slightly less trite and overdone than wanting to make a living as an actor (no offense meant to any starving and aspiring actors out there). but how can i make a living as a writer if i suck so much at it?!?!?
perhaps these were the thoughts going through harvard chick's head when she rationalized plagarizing like FIFTEEN PEOPLE. (yes, i am still stuck on her.... fuck you for judging me.) my great friend jenny, knowing how interested i have been in the subject, kindly fowarded me two recent (as in published yesterday or today) articles cataloguing the catastrophic plunge of harvard chick into infamy. the first one is a quote from salmon rushdie (just one of the virtual football team of authors she is accused of copying from) talking about what a shame it is that she would do something like this and jeopardize a writing career this early in her life. the other is from the harvard crimson, the paper that originally outed her, and it refers to further possible incidents of copying from such well-known authors as sophie kinsella (the shopaholic series). holy moly cow. and you want to know how she defends herself? she says (hold on, i'm laughing too hard to type now) she has a photographic memory, and she internalized these passages without realizing it. hah! my above-mentioned friend jenny could be said to have, if not a photographic memory, nearly so, and let me tell you -- she can remember a lot of shit, AND she remembers that she READ it. she doesn't think she came up with, for example, durkhiem's theory on tribal spiritualities. again, i am amazed that a girl who could get into harvard could be dumb enough to come up with these weak defenses. i guess she can't just come out and say she did it on purpose, and that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all that for legal liability reasons. but i would certainly respect her a lot more if she did. i mean... let's see. unintentional, almost word for word copying. victimized and betrayed by her amazing photographic memory that's not quite photographic enough to remember the real authors' names....have mercy. gotta roll my eyes here. a lot. again.
alright, enough of that shit. when i don't have the dumbest harvard chick ever to occupy my thoughts, they return to the endangered future of my book. i feel like a schizophrenic manic depressive (please, no comments here about my callous use of the schizophrenic and manic depressive conditions -- my mother has suffered from the latter and my mother-in-law still suffers from the former, so, having lived with people who live with said conditions, i feel that i have earned the right to invoke said conditions in my blog... again, fuck you for judging me). i mean, one day it's like, i am going to be a writer. as in a W-R-I-T-E-R. and the next day, it's like, i am going to suck at everything until the day that i die, and i will probably suck at that too (how does one suck at dying? well, maybe they drown in a hundred pounds of elephant crap or maybe they die of auto-erotic asphyxiation or maybe they use too much easy off and then stick their head in an oven.) at this point, you can probably read a sense of panic in my words. panic is exactly what i am feeling. which is weird, cause while my prevailing emotion is usually annoyance, it isn't panicky annoyance. i guess this is what happens when you want something really really badly. or when you love something. i have this same panicky feeling but worse when i remember that chris is mortal and that i am so ridiculously imperfect and one day something might happen that removes him from my life. okay, i am glad that i got that out of my system. i think thinking about something (someone, i guess) really and truly important, no, essential, to my existence has put the book into some perspective. i'll either work on it, or i won't. i'll either finish it, or i won't. and just because i don't finish this one doesn't mean i won't start and finish another. but jeez, i hope this is the one. cause i don't have any more ideas. heh.
perhaps these were the thoughts going through harvard chick's head when she rationalized plagarizing like FIFTEEN PEOPLE. (yes, i am still stuck on her.... fuck you for judging me.) my great friend jenny, knowing how interested i have been in the subject, kindly fowarded me two recent (as in published yesterday or today) articles cataloguing the catastrophic plunge of harvard chick into infamy. the first one is a quote from salmon rushdie (just one of the virtual football team of authors she is accused of copying from) talking about what a shame it is that she would do something like this and jeopardize a writing career this early in her life. the other is from the harvard crimson, the paper that originally outed her, and it refers to further possible incidents of copying from such well-known authors as sophie kinsella (the shopaholic series). holy moly cow. and you want to know how she defends herself? she says (hold on, i'm laughing too hard to type now) she has a photographic memory, and she internalized these passages without realizing it. hah! my above-mentioned friend jenny could be said to have, if not a photographic memory, nearly so, and let me tell you -- she can remember a lot of shit, AND she remembers that she READ it. she doesn't think she came up with, for example, durkhiem's theory on tribal spiritualities. again, i am amazed that a girl who could get into harvard could be dumb enough to come up with these weak defenses. i guess she can't just come out and say she did it on purpose, and that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all that for legal liability reasons. but i would certainly respect her a lot more if she did. i mean... let's see. unintentional, almost word for word copying. victimized and betrayed by her amazing photographic memory that's not quite photographic enough to remember the real authors' names....have mercy. gotta roll my eyes here. a lot. again.
alright, enough of that shit. when i don't have the dumbest harvard chick ever to occupy my thoughts, they return to the endangered future of my book. i feel like a schizophrenic manic depressive (please, no comments here about my callous use of the schizophrenic and manic depressive conditions -- my mother has suffered from the latter and my mother-in-law still suffers from the former, so, having lived with people who live with said conditions, i feel that i have earned the right to invoke said conditions in my blog... again, fuck you for judging me). i mean, one day it's like, i am going to be a writer. as in a W-R-I-T-E-R. and the next day, it's like, i am going to suck at everything until the day that i die, and i will probably suck at that too (how does one suck at dying? well, maybe they drown in a hundred pounds of elephant crap or maybe they die of auto-erotic asphyxiation or maybe they use too much easy off and then stick their head in an oven.) at this point, you can probably read a sense of panic in my words. panic is exactly what i am feeling. which is weird, cause while my prevailing emotion is usually annoyance, it isn't panicky annoyance. i guess this is what happens when you want something really really badly. or when you love something. i have this same panicky feeling but worse when i remember that chris is mortal and that i am so ridiculously imperfect and one day something might happen that removes him from my life. okay, i am glad that i got that out of my system. i think thinking about something (someone, i guess) really and truly important, no, essential, to my existence has put the book into some perspective. i'll either work on it, or i won't. i'll either finish it, or i won't. and just because i don't finish this one doesn't mean i won't start and finish another. but jeez, i hope this is the one. cause i don't have any more ideas. heh.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
man in black, et al
johnny cash is the fucking shit. enough said. no explanation or sappy words needed. who else in the entire world can you describe so accurately, so perfectly, so succinctly with the words "(blank) is the fucking shit"? can you say simply that richard simmons is the fucking shit without talking about his frizz ball hair or sexy girlish legs? can you say that martha stewart is the fucking shit without wondering aloud if she is the reincarnation of john a. macdonald? hell, no. thank you goddess for giving us johnny cash and his wonderful voice and his wonderful songs and for my mp3 non-ipod device in which i can store my entire johnny cash cd collection.
follow up to yesterday's post: the publisher of the plagarized author's books do not accept harvard chick's apologies or excuses for her blatant knock-off. i sense a lawyer in this girl's future. while my compassionate self continues to feel sympathy for harvard chick, my prevailing emotion seems to be glee (obviously my compassionate self is a tiny little honey-i-shrunk-the-kids sized person). i have a smile playing at the edges of my lips and again, nelson munsen keeps repeating "hah hah" which is interfering with my johnny cash listening pleasure. you know.... i wear the black for those who have never read... hah hah. damn.
follow up to yesterday's post: the publisher of the plagarized author's books do not accept harvard chick's apologies or excuses for her blatant knock-off. i sense a lawyer in this girl's future. while my compassionate self continues to feel sympathy for harvard chick, my prevailing emotion seems to be glee (obviously my compassionate self is a tiny little honey-i-shrunk-the-kids sized person). i have a smile playing at the edges of my lips and again, nelson munsen keeps repeating "hah hah" which is interfering with my johnny cash listening pleasure. you know.... i wear the black for those who have never read... hah hah. damn.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
testing testing 1,2,3
it has come to my attention that my comments function isn't working. so hopefully it is now. but i really suck at computers, so it probably isn't.
guilt post
well, i haven't had a blog for all that long yet, but already i am writing my first guilt post. as an avid reader of blogs, i have noticed that all bloggers, no matter how talented they are, no matter how many great ideas they have floating around in their heads, eventually get to a place where they post only out of a panicky guilt feeling. like, oh, shit, it's been so long since i posted that if i don't write something soon, all of my readers are going to abandon me! you can discern these posts by their random quality, their lack of cohesion or theme, and babbling. that's right, babbling. useless words with useless meanings that run on and on and on and on. babbling. (sigh. i just realized that my pooh post could be considered a babbling messy... thing..., which would mean that this really ISN'T my first guilt post. but i really did feel like a chubby little tubby all stuffed with fluff that day. i did.)
since this is my first guilt post, i will indulge another first, but one that will likely become the first of many given my obsessive morning reading of the new york times online edition. i am going to write for the first time about an item in the news. about a week ago, i was reading about this chick who got a $500,000 book deal as a sophomore in college. now, said chick is very privileged, and recieved her book deal because of some quality networking between her college admissions coach (yes, that's right, a college admissions coach) and said college admission coach's connections with several publishing houses and publishing agents. naturally, my first thought was a jealously uttered "bitch". my second thought was "oh, jeebus, what's wrong with me? i am 24 years old and have never ever accomplished anything worthwhile in my whole entire life!" ahem. so, yeah, it was a little dramatic and completely illogical, but i may have been on my period, who the hell knows? this morning, i start surfing the net, and i find a story about last week's chick and how she might have plagarized 13 passages in her book from a popular author of young adult drama, and that another 29 passages bear "striking similarities" to scenes in the popular author's novels. naturally, my first thought was a nelson munsen inspired "hah hah!" my second thought was "my stuff may be shit, but at least it's original." my third thought was "i feel kinda bad for this chick. her book was about the pressure on young women of her class to perform like circus dogs, to be successful in walking tightropes and fetching brightly colored balls, and she becomes successful because of this book, and now she's a freaking plagarist." then i reverted to my usual cynical misanthropic self and decided that she deserves what she gets cause if she's smart enough to get into harvard, she's smart enough to realize that she has plagarized one of her favorite authors. its something that all writers have to face, i think. i struggle all the time to balance between being inspired by my idols and just repeating their ideas and style in my own work. (if you laugh because i am referring to myself as a writer, i will kick your ass.) it requires a huge amount of self-criticism and self-reflexivity. everytime you write something, you have to ask yourself, has this been done before? where did i get this idea? am i writing in my own voice, or in the voice of the last author i read? but you HAVE to do it. because while it's true that there is very little in the literary world that is truly original, you can't be a writer by imitating the style or stealing the words of real writers. i guess this harvard chick was more interested in the $500,000 than she was in being a writer. or maybe it was just fan fiction like that star trek novella i wrote in the seventh grade.
since this is my first guilt post, i will indulge another first, but one that will likely become the first of many given my obsessive morning reading of the new york times online edition. i am going to write for the first time about an item in the news. about a week ago, i was reading about this chick who got a $500,000 book deal as a sophomore in college. now, said chick is very privileged, and recieved her book deal because of some quality networking between her college admissions coach (yes, that's right, a college admissions coach) and said college admission coach's connections with several publishing houses and publishing agents. naturally, my first thought was a jealously uttered "bitch". my second thought was "oh, jeebus, what's wrong with me? i am 24 years old and have never ever accomplished anything worthwhile in my whole entire life!" ahem. so, yeah, it was a little dramatic and completely illogical, but i may have been on my period, who the hell knows? this morning, i start surfing the net, and i find a story about last week's chick and how she might have plagarized 13 passages in her book from a popular author of young adult drama, and that another 29 passages bear "striking similarities" to scenes in the popular author's novels. naturally, my first thought was a nelson munsen inspired "hah hah!" my second thought was "my stuff may be shit, but at least it's original." my third thought was "i feel kinda bad for this chick. her book was about the pressure on young women of her class to perform like circus dogs, to be successful in walking tightropes and fetching brightly colored balls, and she becomes successful because of this book, and now she's a freaking plagarist." then i reverted to my usual cynical misanthropic self and decided that she deserves what she gets cause if she's smart enough to get into harvard, she's smart enough to realize that she has plagarized one of her favorite authors. its something that all writers have to face, i think. i struggle all the time to balance between being inspired by my idols and just repeating their ideas and style in my own work. (if you laugh because i am referring to myself as a writer, i will kick your ass.) it requires a huge amount of self-criticism and self-reflexivity. everytime you write something, you have to ask yourself, has this been done before? where did i get this idea? am i writing in my own voice, or in the voice of the last author i read? but you HAVE to do it. because while it's true that there is very little in the literary world that is truly original, you can't be a writer by imitating the style or stealing the words of real writers. i guess this harvard chick was more interested in the $500,000 than she was in being a writer. or maybe it was just fan fiction like that star trek novella i wrote in the seventh grade.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
oh boy
i went to bed pretty early last night, an optimistic thing to do after a four day weekend of staying up late and sleeping in even later (thank you jeebus for this most precious holiday). contrary to my usual pattern, i was on the verge of sweet dreams (well, probably not sweet dreams, probably more like weird dreams, under which heading most of my dreams can be categorized. not scary weird. scratch-your-chin-and-wonder-what-the-hell-is-going-on-in-my-deranged-brain weird.) at about nine p.m. when days (truthfully weeks and if i really want to admit the reality, almost months) of tossing around ideas for a book in my head, of tracing out possible plot lines and character traits, of setting down a setting of time and place, culminated in the formation of an idea. an idea for my book. not just an idea for my book, but a good, workable, and i believe, entertaining idea. i kept my head on my pillow and told myself to remember all the things that were popping up in my head, one after another, going off like an automatic weapon. i told myself that if i kept repeating these ideas as they were coming to me that i would be able to remember them in the morning. i didn't want to get up because being near sleep at nine (well, it would be about nine thirty at this point) wasn't worth hopping out of bed to grab a pen and paper. my brain continued to spin off the central idea and my body continued to flip and flop in bed. chris, who was dealing with his own bout of the sunday evening back to work blues, finally asked me why i couldn't sleep. so i told him "i've got it. i've got the idea for my book." at which point he asked simply, "why don't you go write it down?" count on chris to be logical on a sunday night when our room is too hot and the covers are all messed up and i can't sleep because i have finally found the pooper scooper and baggie to pile all this shit into that has been buzzing around my head without a place to land for the last two months or so (i think i mixed metaphors there, and my fly got stuck in my shit or something, but oh well). anyway, i got up and grabbed my notebook and jotted down all the floaties that were floating through my head and in about fifteen minutes i had about three pages, all of it the musculo-skeletal structure of what could end up being a long, long story. book length, in other words. i am very very excited about this, hence my title: oh boy.
however, i am also very scared about this. i am scared because i don't have any more excuses to start -- or to not start. i am scared to tell people about my idea -- what if they think its stupid and my balloon gets burst? i am scared because of the committment actually sitting down and writing my thoughts represents. i am scared that i suck too much, or am too lazy, or whatever, to get this done. oh boy.
so i guess now the responsible, smart thing to do would be schedule some time every day to write. right now with a full time job, it's a little hard to imagine getting more than a couple of pages per week finished. however, i at least have my beginning, and my character, and my setting, and my plot, and my structure. i hope that i don't do with this one what i've done in the past -- disregard it as already been done, or dumb, or poorly written. i need this to work. i need to work at this. i need to prove to myself that i am good enough, smart enough, and that gosh darm it, people like me. no pressure. oh boy.
however, i am also very scared about this. i am scared because i don't have any more excuses to start -- or to not start. i am scared to tell people about my idea -- what if they think its stupid and my balloon gets burst? i am scared because of the committment actually sitting down and writing my thoughts represents. i am scared that i suck too much, or am too lazy, or whatever, to get this done. oh boy.
so i guess now the responsible, smart thing to do would be schedule some time every day to write. right now with a full time job, it's a little hard to imagine getting more than a couple of pages per week finished. however, i at least have my beginning, and my character, and my setting, and my plot, and my structure. i hope that i don't do with this one what i've done in the past -- disregard it as already been done, or dumb, or poorly written. i need this to work. i need to work at this. i need to prove to myself that i am good enough, smart enough, and that gosh darm it, people like me. no pressure. oh boy.
Friday, April 07, 2006
tubby little chubby all stuffed with fluff
i feel a little bit like winnie the pooh today, like my head is stuffed full of cotton that has surely molded from the slobber of children that have chewed on my ears. when taken with the facts that i am wearing a red t-shirt that resembles pooh's almost as much as my body type does, that i am hobbling around without balance due to sore calves caused by the fifteen consecutive flights of stairs forced upon my beleagured body by a personal trainer, and that i feel a near constant need to mutter "oh, bother" and eat honey out of a jar with my hands...well, if it thinks like a pooh, and talks like a pooh, and walks like a pooh, and looks like a pooh... it must be me today. i come to this conclusion after determining that i deviate from the pooh standard in two major ways: i lack his consistent good nature AND i'm wearing pants. they might have holes in them, but they are still pants. well, jeans, not pants. really, old, scruffy jeans.
(i just realized, at the ripe age of 24, after watching winnie the pooh for about 20 years or so, that none of the folks living in the hundred acre wood, with the exception of christopher robin, the lone human, wear any pants and that the likely reason for this state of pants-less abandon is that pants imply genetalia to hide, and as far as disney is concerned, while gender can and should exist, genetalia should not. who knew they were so progressive? i shouldn't be surprised. they have gay day after all. yet while i respect their progressive views, i would not want to give up my genetalia or my boyfriend's genetalia, even if it meant that we could walk around in public without pants. it's perfectly satisfactory to let loose with the pants-less-ness in the privacy of one's own home.)
believe it or not, i am thoroughly enjoying my pooh-like bumbling. my head was so full of fluff this morning that i did not care about the fact that my jeans are almost completely destroyed or that my t-shirt is probably inappropriate to wear to work or that my flip flops are four years old (i paid seven bucks for them in 2002 -- best shoe value ever!). why? because i am comfy, dammit, and my feelings of comfi-ness are translating into a very concrete sense of well being. if i knew dressing like a bum and staring off into space while humming "the wonderful thing about tiggers" (the wonderful thing about tiggers, tiggers are wonderful things, they're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, etc. etc.) would be the key to self-actualization, i would have adopted this lifestyle a long time ago. power suits, my ass. screw the yuppie dream! for goddess's sake, read the words of the prophet pooh (or whoever wrote for pooh) and rejoice:
"the sky is perfectly blue/the clouds are perfect too/and here i am with you/what could be more right/a quest has come to an end/and home's around the bend/and here you are my friend/what could be more right/nothing can go wrong/if everything is right/and everything is right somehow/nothing can go wrong/as long as everything is right/and everything is right, right now." (well, except for that i am at work and no one else is here and i have seven hours to go before this song will really be appropriate.)
hmm. i think by now it's obvious that someone has slipped me some kind of fabulous pharmacuetical and i should go have myself checked. or maybe i should just have some breakfast. anybody got any honey? i guess yogurt and a granola bar will have to do. strangely, contemplating my breakfast is starting to cause an eeyore-like response. hopefully i will not begin to take eeyore's physical traits as i have taken on pooh's. i mean, eeyore has a nice ass and all, but would i really want to be a blue donkey with a black mohawk? then again... i could probably get some sick leave from work if that condition were to develop. will you listen to me? since when have i looked on the bright side of things? it looks like pooh's possession of me continues after all. what's next? getting stuck in a rabbit hole with my ass hanging out? lucky for me (and for the rest of you, incidentally), it's (it being my ass) covered in my old blue jeans.
(i just realized, at the ripe age of 24, after watching winnie the pooh for about 20 years or so, that none of the folks living in the hundred acre wood, with the exception of christopher robin, the lone human, wear any pants and that the likely reason for this state of pants-less abandon is that pants imply genetalia to hide, and as far as disney is concerned, while gender can and should exist, genetalia should not. who knew they were so progressive? i shouldn't be surprised. they have gay day after all. yet while i respect their progressive views, i would not want to give up my genetalia or my boyfriend's genetalia, even if it meant that we could walk around in public without pants. it's perfectly satisfactory to let loose with the pants-less-ness in the privacy of one's own home.)
believe it or not, i am thoroughly enjoying my pooh-like bumbling. my head was so full of fluff this morning that i did not care about the fact that my jeans are almost completely destroyed or that my t-shirt is probably inappropriate to wear to work or that my flip flops are four years old (i paid seven bucks for them in 2002 -- best shoe value ever!). why? because i am comfy, dammit, and my feelings of comfi-ness are translating into a very concrete sense of well being. if i knew dressing like a bum and staring off into space while humming "the wonderful thing about tiggers" (the wonderful thing about tiggers, tiggers are wonderful things, they're bouncy, trouncy, flouncy, pouncy, etc. etc.) would be the key to self-actualization, i would have adopted this lifestyle a long time ago. power suits, my ass. screw the yuppie dream! for goddess's sake, read the words of the prophet pooh (or whoever wrote for pooh) and rejoice:
"the sky is perfectly blue/the clouds are perfect too/and here i am with you/what could be more right/a quest has come to an end/and home's around the bend/and here you are my friend/what could be more right/nothing can go wrong/if everything is right/and everything is right somehow/nothing can go wrong/as long as everything is right/and everything is right, right now." (well, except for that i am at work and no one else is here and i have seven hours to go before this song will really be appropriate.)
hmm. i think by now it's obvious that someone has slipped me some kind of fabulous pharmacuetical and i should go have myself checked. or maybe i should just have some breakfast. anybody got any honey? i guess yogurt and a granola bar will have to do. strangely, contemplating my breakfast is starting to cause an eeyore-like response. hopefully i will not begin to take eeyore's physical traits as i have taken on pooh's. i mean, eeyore has a nice ass and all, but would i really want to be a blue donkey with a black mohawk? then again... i could probably get some sick leave from work if that condition were to develop. will you listen to me? since when have i looked on the bright side of things? it looks like pooh's possession of me continues after all. what's next? getting stuck in a rabbit hole with my ass hanging out? lucky for me (and for the rest of you, incidentally), it's (it being my ass) covered in my old blue jeans.
Monday, April 03, 2006
sleep? i don't need no freakin sleep
those of you who know me are probably fucking sick of hearing me obsess about sleep -- how much of it i get or don't get, how much i like it, how much i want it, how much i needs it, my precious. too. damn. bad.
four hours. four hours. i know that bryant gumbel and that katy couric bitch can function on four hours of sleep, but i am a human being, not an automaton programmed by aliens to get up at the butt crack of dawn in order to drone on about whether or not tom cruise is possessed by the spirit of l. ron freaking hubbard. ahem.
i apologize for my nasty tone. i get a bit testy when i am tired. perhaps it's the bleary eyes that looked like i've smoked more dope than woody harrelson and bill clinton combined. perhaps it's being more bloated than that whale that blew up from the inside out in taiwan. perhaps it's the feeling of fogginess, of my world being slightly slower than it should be. i have no doubt that my poor little axons are trying to fire neurochemicals at one another as bravely as the residents of the alamo shot at the mexicans, and with about that much enthusiasm. but like the texans, they are losing the battle.
how desperate is the situation? i am now contemplating taking a nap in the juevenile delinquent's room at our office. who knows what i might lay in? who knows what substances have soaked into those couches? will i get bedbugs? lice? syphyillis? do i really care? is having a nap worth getting some unknown skin disease? damn. i have nice skin. i don't want to break out in syphyillitic sores. i suppose i will have to tough it out. wish me luck. i feel a little bit like william b. travis writing to sam houston. that one's for you, jenny.
four hours. four hours. i know that bryant gumbel and that katy couric bitch can function on four hours of sleep, but i am a human being, not an automaton programmed by aliens to get up at the butt crack of dawn in order to drone on about whether or not tom cruise is possessed by the spirit of l. ron freaking hubbard. ahem.
i apologize for my nasty tone. i get a bit testy when i am tired. perhaps it's the bleary eyes that looked like i've smoked more dope than woody harrelson and bill clinton combined. perhaps it's being more bloated than that whale that blew up from the inside out in taiwan. perhaps it's the feeling of fogginess, of my world being slightly slower than it should be. i have no doubt that my poor little axons are trying to fire neurochemicals at one another as bravely as the residents of the alamo shot at the mexicans, and with about that much enthusiasm. but like the texans, they are losing the battle.
how desperate is the situation? i am now contemplating taking a nap in the juevenile delinquent's room at our office. who knows what i might lay in? who knows what substances have soaked into those couches? will i get bedbugs? lice? syphyillis? do i really care? is having a nap worth getting some unknown skin disease? damn. i have nice skin. i don't want to break out in syphyillitic sores. i suppose i will have to tough it out. wish me luck. i feel a little bit like william b. travis writing to sam houston. that one's for you, jenny.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
confession 2
before everyone gets all hot and bothered about my confessions, there's one thing you should know -- my existence is stereotypically white, heterosexual, and lower middle class. i have many confessions, and none of them are about drugs, sex, or anything particularly exciting. if i did something worthy of confessing in the drugs/sex/excitement category, i wouldn't post about it because i would have dropped dead from surprising myself. just so you know.
anyway. so, i got back from my vacation to find an envelope from ubc in my mailbox. it was a letter informing me that i have been accepted to the faculty of law at ubc. yippee. notice my total lack of passion about something i should be passionate about. i have two weeks to tell them that i won't be accepting their offer. why would someone apply to law school and then refuse acceptance, you might ask? well, not just for shits and giggles, though that was certainly part of it. when i came up with the idea of applying to law school, i was all gung ho about it. i am interested in the law, i have connections in the legal community in BC thanks to my current position, i want to have a career instead of just having a job, and i miss being in school. also, at the time, i saw law school as the perfect compromise between my desire to continue my education and chris's desire not to get the heck out of dodge (seeing as how i have already done my master's at ubc, the thought of doing a phd there when i know how shitty the system is isn't too appealing).
however, i have since considered the drawbacks and asked myself what i really want from my life. let us first consider the drawbacks of law school and a career in law: sixty hour work weeks for the first five years, snotty assholes just doing it for the money, rigidity, moral ambiguity, MORE student loan debt, and the hour and a half commute (one way) from our home to ubc for three years. now, let us consider what i want from life: time to spend cuddling and talking (and let's face it, screwing) with my partner; time to visit my aging grandparents in texas; time to spend in one of my favorite cities, austin, with my friends; enough money to buy or build a comfortable and homey home; and enough energy to enjoy all the great experiences of life that i overlook in the pursuit of grueling work and social schedules. oh, and i think i want to write a book. so what to do, what to do? well, working a sixty hour week would make it pretty hard to get in all that quality cuddling, talking, and screwing (not in order of importance, by the way). nor do i think underling lawyers at big firms get a lot of vacation time, especially since every pay check counts when trying to get rid of student loan debt. in other words, i think that a career in law is for the most part (though not totally of course, wouldn't want to be deterministic here) incommensurate with my.... well, with my heart's desire.
by now it's pretty obvious that my confession #2 is that i am not going to law school (at least not this year... maybe i will change my mind after i watch more of my friends and coworkers get on with their lives). what do you think? am i a moron? am i on my way to being a fat, middle aged, prematurely gray and prematurely wrinkled (from the fat) waitress at denny's (or whatever. insert your own local nightmarish 24 hour diner here) with bad lipstick and even uglier hygiene habits? sigh. i think so.
anyway. so, i got back from my vacation to find an envelope from ubc in my mailbox. it was a letter informing me that i have been accepted to the faculty of law at ubc. yippee. notice my total lack of passion about something i should be passionate about. i have two weeks to tell them that i won't be accepting their offer. why would someone apply to law school and then refuse acceptance, you might ask? well, not just for shits and giggles, though that was certainly part of it. when i came up with the idea of applying to law school, i was all gung ho about it. i am interested in the law, i have connections in the legal community in BC thanks to my current position, i want to have a career instead of just having a job, and i miss being in school. also, at the time, i saw law school as the perfect compromise between my desire to continue my education and chris's desire not to get the heck out of dodge (seeing as how i have already done my master's at ubc, the thought of doing a phd there when i know how shitty the system is isn't too appealing).
however, i have since considered the drawbacks and asked myself what i really want from my life. let us first consider the drawbacks of law school and a career in law: sixty hour work weeks for the first five years, snotty assholes just doing it for the money, rigidity, moral ambiguity, MORE student loan debt, and the hour and a half commute (one way) from our home to ubc for three years. now, let us consider what i want from life: time to spend cuddling and talking (and let's face it, screwing) with my partner; time to visit my aging grandparents in texas; time to spend in one of my favorite cities, austin, with my friends; enough money to buy or build a comfortable and homey home; and enough energy to enjoy all the great experiences of life that i overlook in the pursuit of grueling work and social schedules. oh, and i think i want to write a book. so what to do, what to do? well, working a sixty hour week would make it pretty hard to get in all that quality cuddling, talking, and screwing (not in order of importance, by the way). nor do i think underling lawyers at big firms get a lot of vacation time, especially since every pay check counts when trying to get rid of student loan debt. in other words, i think that a career in law is for the most part (though not totally of course, wouldn't want to be deterministic here) incommensurate with my.... well, with my heart's desire.
by now it's pretty obvious that my confession #2 is that i am not going to law school (at least not this year... maybe i will change my mind after i watch more of my friends and coworkers get on with their lives). what do you think? am i a moron? am i on my way to being a fat, middle aged, prematurely gray and prematurely wrinkled (from the fat) waitress at denny's (or whatever. insert your own local nightmarish 24 hour diner here) with bad lipstick and even uglier hygiene habits? sigh. i think so.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
travel log
i didn't really keep a log. why would i?
i had a nice trip. the bed and breakfast we stayed in had a very comfy bed and a very tasty breakfast and a breaktaking view of the water and vancouver island in the distance. perhaps it is for that reason that we stayed in for 60 of the 72 hours we were on the sunshine coast, enjoying the view and each other. on monday, we emerged from our room and went on a 10 kilometer hike through the freaking wilderness. my legs are sore. i need to buy some suitable hiking footwear. at any rate, it was a good vacation, thoroughly relaxing. i think i need to do this exact vacation about once a month.
you see now why i don't keep a travel log? it would suck, much like this post. but i had to post about my holiday, right?
i had a nice trip. the bed and breakfast we stayed in had a very comfy bed and a very tasty breakfast and a breaktaking view of the water and vancouver island in the distance. perhaps it is for that reason that we stayed in for 60 of the 72 hours we were on the sunshine coast, enjoying the view and each other. on monday, we emerged from our room and went on a 10 kilometer hike through the freaking wilderness. my legs are sore. i need to buy some suitable hiking footwear. at any rate, it was a good vacation, thoroughly relaxing. i think i need to do this exact vacation about once a month.
you see now why i don't keep a travel log? it would suck, much like this post. but i had to post about my holiday, right?
Friday, March 24, 2006
holiday
tomorrow i am leaving town for a quick little four day vacation with my sweetie. i am very much looking forward to the time away, with no chores to do, no errands to run, no obligations to uphold, and nothing but time to spend with my favorite person in the world. (given the nature of my mostly self-involved posts, i feel the need to let you know that my favorite person in the world is not me, but rather my loving, compassionate, and furry partner chris).
however, the anticipation that i feel thinking about our trip is tinged with something not-so-anticipatory. i think it is dread. a nagging voice in my head reminds me that holidays are just little escapes from the drudgery and sameness of every day life, a way to recharge one's batteries so that they can be sucked dry yet again by working, commuting, small talking, whatever, upon one's return to reality. the really insidious thing about vacations is that you feel so damn good after one of them that you lose the will to change your crappy job, or leave your cheating spouse, or make that important leap in your life that will remove whatever monkey is clinging to your back and slowly leeching out your soul. holidays are like those flashing memory erasers from men in black -- one push of a button and you've forgotten that you've seen an alien in your mirror.
why do we need to get away from our lives? are our lives really ours if we constantly seek ways to escape from them? how much of our lives are made up of merely a series of implicit consents rather than conscious choices? all the time we consent to bills, to mortgages, to restraint, to retirement funds, to lazy coworkers, to hateful in-laws, to not letting ourselves experience happiness and joy as often as we can.
rainbow always used to say 'don't let anyone steal your joy' and i realized with a start the other day that i had let someone steal my joy and it was me. i plan to use this holiday as an opportunity to take back my joy. i plan to bring it back with me, tucked safe inside a little box in my head. i plan to share my joy with chris, every day. i plan to take it out and turn it over in my hands when i am overwhelmed by choices and paths until it provides me with a map of where i want to go.
however, the anticipation that i feel thinking about our trip is tinged with something not-so-anticipatory. i think it is dread. a nagging voice in my head reminds me that holidays are just little escapes from the drudgery and sameness of every day life, a way to recharge one's batteries so that they can be sucked dry yet again by working, commuting, small talking, whatever, upon one's return to reality. the really insidious thing about vacations is that you feel so damn good after one of them that you lose the will to change your crappy job, or leave your cheating spouse, or make that important leap in your life that will remove whatever monkey is clinging to your back and slowly leeching out your soul. holidays are like those flashing memory erasers from men in black -- one push of a button and you've forgotten that you've seen an alien in your mirror.
why do we need to get away from our lives? are our lives really ours if we constantly seek ways to escape from them? how much of our lives are made up of merely a series of implicit consents rather than conscious choices? all the time we consent to bills, to mortgages, to restraint, to retirement funds, to lazy coworkers, to hateful in-laws, to not letting ourselves experience happiness and joy as often as we can.
rainbow always used to say 'don't let anyone steal your joy' and i realized with a start the other day that i had let someone steal my joy and it was me. i plan to use this holiday as an opportunity to take back my joy. i plan to bring it back with me, tucked safe inside a little box in my head. i plan to share my joy with chris, every day. i plan to take it out and turn it over in my hands when i am overwhelmed by choices and paths until it provides me with a map of where i want to go.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
confession 1
i am at work. but i am not working. lately, i sit at my desk and work hard at avoiding my work. i search for obsure web pages about creative writing, foucauldian theory, soon-to-be-published books by favorite authors, graduate programs in politics, and miscellanea. i sit with scrunched up eyes, trying to push out some story idea or character for the novel i want to write. (writing a novel is something that people who don't want real jobs aspire to do, which often results in the kind of shit that populates the shelves of my local chapters bookseller.) i wonder if i should quit my job and try to get a new one. am i selfishly (i keep the job for fear of being unpaid, for fear of finding something worse -- the job is not bad, it is not hard, it suits my schedule and my routine, and i have good friends here) holding on to a position that is teaching me nothing new, that i neglect from sheer boredom of the work? should i let the work go to someone who could and wants to do a better job? probably. but will i? probably not. after all, what if my next job (assuming i get one -- my degrees are in political science and history, for goddess's sake) doesn't allow me the time and flexibility to write emails to friends in different countries, jot down thoughts on my blog, or surf the net for another reason to ridicule george bush? what could be wrong with that?
Monday, March 20, 2006
who is rainbow johnson?
rainbow johnson was one of my father's names, the one under which he played ball, picked up women, and generally enjoyed life. he called rainbow his alter ego, but rainbow was exactly like wayne and vice versa as far as i could tell. wayne and rainbow came up with some pretty good shit together, including life lessons drawn from the simpsons, awful one-liners, and tips on how to live rather than just exist. i named this blog after him because i like the name and i need to recognize all that it implies.
he always used to say that everything happens for a reason. i wonder if he's right.
he always used to say that everything happens for a reason. i wonder if he's right.
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