Just now I was driving back to the office after lunch. I was living in my head, like I always do, listening to jazz on the radio and thinking about what other cars were doing so I didn't hit anything. A black pickup truck turned onto St. Michael's just before me, pulling into the left lane, while I pulled into the right. I saw cars stopped at a red light in front of me; rather than pulling up to them quickly, I kept the speed with which I'd turned so that I wouldn't have to come to a stop before the light changed. Then the black pickup switched lanes and pulled in front of me. I cursed him a little for blocking my acceleration room, ascribing a petty motive to the driver: maybe he did it because it felt like he was going faster, like passing someone on the highway. Just as I was registering his move, though, he disappeared, taking a right-hand exit to get onto St. Francis.
The cars started moving then, and I had successfully kept my speed, just driving now along the road back to work, no new thoughts. Then suddenly, it was as though the lens of my eyes expanded, and I saw the view around me. I looked at the horizon and saw that it was bordered by gorgeous blue mountains, forever in the distance. I leaned over so I could see more of the sky and saw that it was gigantic, an uninterrupted blue landscape all around me. I saw that the view around my car was long and low and had no buildings in it, almost like civilization hasn't quite taken hold here quite yet, even now after ten thousand years of city dwellers throwing up buildings and monuments and other manmade forms that chip away at the landscape. For just a few minutes, I felt once again the thrill of being in New Mexico, a land where it's possible to connect to life beyond modern confines and the day-to-day world of sleeping and eating, bills, national entertainment culture, presidential election year news, renting a cheaply designed house in a dull suburb of a dull city. For just a few minutes, I felt spiritual and imaginitive, the wonder of life, the possibilities of a free mind.
I've been trying to recapture that feeling for the last few years. I haven't had it much; New Mexico first gave it to me when I visited here during two spring vacations from Annapolis. Since then, more often than not, my mind has fallen into avoidance: I avoid remembering that I'm at work for the eight hours that I'm there, and then I avoid doing anything difficult (writing, studying an academic subject, reading German) until I go to sleep. This minor epiphany on St. Michael's, and a few other glimmers of light in the past months, have given me hope that my frozen mind might thaw soon.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
It was four degrees outside this morning, colder than the walk-in freezer I remember from working at Main Street Ice Cream in Annapolis in 2002. Nevertheless, there was no moisture on the streets to freeze, despite a reported possibility of snow overnight. I think I'm going to start praying to Bob Dylan to give me snow days. He failed to give me one today, although it was less important than it might be because the office is even more quiet than normal today.
Last night they hosted a Legislative Reception, which they do every year during the single, puny New Mexico legislative session. The length of the legislative session rotates every year between thirty and sixty days. The rest of the year, the legislature meets only if called to a special session by the Governor. I can't imagine how the state government hopes to keep up with changes or impact New Mexico with sessions the length of an aphid's lifespan, but anyway, that's how they do it here.
Everybody in the office was shouting about how much stress they were under organizing everything, reserving hotel rooms, ordering food, training members in lobbying, and coordinating meetings of various organization committees, since all the board members would be in town. We invite all the members of the legislature, as well as the governor and his cabinet, the lieutenant governor, all the public education commissioners, and New Mexico's congressional representatives. I think only legislators and commissioners showed up. Everybody stood chatting in what we call the training room, eating finger food and watching the all-female mariachi band who I first saw in Tomasita's. It was about the same as a St. John's party, except without the altered states, hook-ups, aggressive dance music, indoor smoking, shouting, decorations, and senior residents watching over everything. Oh, also, the lights were brighter.
People kept telling me that I was welcome to come to the reception, as all the staff was invited as well; "You should come tonight, and bring you wife!" No one took the further step of telling me why I should go, but after I picked up Anne from school (where she was working), we stopped in and ate some barbecue sandwiches, chicken kabobs, and cookies. Everybody stood in a semicircle and slowly stopped chatting for first song by the mariachi band, who were all dressed in the same blue dress, with little guitars or violins and shifting singing duties. Then Anne and I left, without even seeing Bill Richardson, as I'd been half hoping.
We went home, and were soon joined by Adam Wilson, who I guess decided to drop by to visit Steven. Scott made pancakes, and then Adam and Steven bought a case of Tecate and made cheese hot dogs covered in bacon. I've quit smoking again, so I didn't join Adam on the porch in the solidifying cold. Adam's been coming over often since Steven moved in, and staying long after Anne and I go to bed. Having Steven live with us is, in general, like living in a part-time college dorm. We never know when we're going to be woken in the early morning by what could be either fearful shrieking or an Allanis Morrissette video on youtube, and sometimes the table is covered with empty beer cans in the morning. I hope that when Steven starts his job at Whole Foods next week, we move back to a quieter existence.
I still feel like a hostage to the seeming necessity of holding a full-time job. Maybe if Bob Dylan proves capable of providing me with snow days every so often, I can set up a sort of religious calendar around him so that I feel less monotony. May 24 would become the new Christmas, but beyond that I don't know what else to put on the calendar.
Today in the office, at least, the monotony is tempered by the feeling of relief from last night. In fact, only five people are here today, and if I were more rigorous about keeping up with my work, I'd legitimately have nothing to do. As it is, there are a few phone calls to make, and a few databases to update. I should also probably clean my desk. I'd just rather be home.
Last night they hosted a Legislative Reception, which they do every year during the single, puny New Mexico legislative session. The length of the legislative session rotates every year between thirty and sixty days. The rest of the year, the legislature meets only if called to a special session by the Governor. I can't imagine how the state government hopes to keep up with changes or impact New Mexico with sessions the length of an aphid's lifespan, but anyway, that's how they do it here.
Everybody in the office was shouting about how much stress they were under organizing everything, reserving hotel rooms, ordering food, training members in lobbying, and coordinating meetings of various organization committees, since all the board members would be in town. We invite all the members of the legislature, as well as the governor and his cabinet, the lieutenant governor, all the public education commissioners, and New Mexico's congressional representatives. I think only legislators and commissioners showed up. Everybody stood chatting in what we call the training room, eating finger food and watching the all-female mariachi band who I first saw in Tomasita's. It was about the same as a St. John's party, except without the altered states, hook-ups, aggressive dance music, indoor smoking, shouting, decorations, and senior residents watching over everything. Oh, also, the lights were brighter.
People kept telling me that I was welcome to come to the reception, as all the staff was invited as well; "You should come tonight, and bring you wife!" No one took the further step of telling me why I should go, but after I picked up Anne from school (where she was working), we stopped in and ate some barbecue sandwiches, chicken kabobs, and cookies. Everybody stood in a semicircle and slowly stopped chatting for first song by the mariachi band, who were all dressed in the same blue dress, with little guitars or violins and shifting singing duties. Then Anne and I left, without even seeing Bill Richardson, as I'd been half hoping.
We went home, and were soon joined by Adam Wilson, who I guess decided to drop by to visit Steven. Scott made pancakes, and then Adam and Steven bought a case of Tecate and made cheese hot dogs covered in bacon. I've quit smoking again, so I didn't join Adam on the porch in the solidifying cold. Adam's been coming over often since Steven moved in, and staying long after Anne and I go to bed. Having Steven live with us is, in general, like living in a part-time college dorm. We never know when we're going to be woken in the early morning by what could be either fearful shrieking or an Allanis Morrissette video on youtube, and sometimes the table is covered with empty beer cans in the morning. I hope that when Steven starts his job at Whole Foods next week, we move back to a quieter existence.
I still feel like a hostage to the seeming necessity of holding a full-time job. Maybe if Bob Dylan proves capable of providing me with snow days every so often, I can set up a sort of religious calendar around him so that I feel less monotony. May 24 would become the new Christmas, but beyond that I don't know what else to put on the calendar.
Today in the office, at least, the monotony is tempered by the feeling of relief from last night. In fact, only five people are here today, and if I were more rigorous about keeping up with my work, I'd legitimately have nothing to do. As it is, there are a few phone calls to make, and a few databases to update. I should also probably clean my desk. I'd just rather be home.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
I don't know if I have nothing to say or I'm just lazy. I haven't been writing much of anything in the last months, not even emails. When I came back to work after the Christmas break, I felt demoralized with having to go in to work every day. Every day, even on weekends, I feel the same sense of waiting for the end of the day to come that I get when I'm at work. At work, I look forward to coming home; once I get home, I'm not looking forward to anything, but I'm still waiting for the end.
Today I've been reading online for hours, first blogs (reading each one on the list at Altercation in alphabetical order), then the New York Times. I haven't been reading newspapers much, although I read through them every day while on vacation. There were a couple of years when I read newspapers more than anything else, didn't feel right unless I had read the entire A section because what if I missed something? Now it doesn't seem like I'm missing something vital if I don't read a newspaper, but it still feels stimulating (witness this blog post).
While reading the internet, I also downloaded twenty albums by Miles Davis. I've planned to listen to all of his major albums since 2001, when John Polewach introduced me to a lot of his music as I learned somewhat to play jazz drums (I'd listened to him before that, but only a couple of albums). I played Cookin' last night after getting into bed, after not listening to jazz for about half a year. As with many other things, I wonder how long my interest will last, and whether or not I will ever find an abiding interest.
Today I've been reading online for hours, first blogs (reading each one on the list at Altercation in alphabetical order), then the New York Times. I haven't been reading newspapers much, although I read through them every day while on vacation. There were a couple of years when I read newspapers more than anything else, didn't feel right unless I had read the entire A section because what if I missed something? Now it doesn't seem like I'm missing something vital if I don't read a newspaper, but it still feels stimulating (witness this blog post).
While reading the internet, I also downloaded twenty albums by Miles Davis. I've planned to listen to all of his major albums since 2001, when John Polewach introduced me to a lot of his music as I learned somewhat to play jazz drums (I'd listened to him before that, but only a couple of albums). I played Cookin' last night after getting into bed, after not listening to jazz for about half a year. As with many other things, I wonder how long my interest will last, and whether or not I will ever find an abiding interest.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
"Thus, the subcellular distribution of PRAK is determined by multiple factors including its own NES and NLS, docking interactions between PRAK and docking proteins, phosphorylation of PRAK, and cellular activation status. The p38 MAPKs not only regulate PRAK activity and PRAK activation-related translocation, but also dock PRAK to selected subcellular locations in resting cells."
Monday, November 19, 2007
Something's clearly not right with the world when it's nearly 70 degrees in late November. I guess I should write a letter to the National Weather Creation Bureau and find what's going on. Maybe one of the clerks took several months off and, like me after a lunch break, started working again but so slowly that an observer wouldn't see any progress, and that's why we're having September days still. With any luck, maybe the Metaphysical Congress will take up this issue and actually do something about it, instead of just stalling every piece of new legislation in the Antinomy Committee.
Somehow, November seems even more hollow when it's warm outside. The leaves have still fallen off the trees, the grass is dead, and the bushes in New Mexico have changed into skeletons, and with such warm weather this looks a lot more alarming than previous Falls. Maybe there was a nuclear holocaust, and everybody slept through it.
Somehow, November seems even more hollow when it's warm outside. The leaves have still fallen off the trees, the grass is dead, and the bushes in New Mexico have changed into skeletons, and with such warm weather this looks a lot more alarming than previous Falls. Maybe there was a nuclear holocaust, and everybody slept through it.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
I agree with everything in this post about driving a car with a stick shift. I'm wondering if my readers who don't drive stick think that it makes sense, or if it just looks like bullshit to them.
I'm currently listening to the latest album by the Travis Morrisson Hellfighters, All Y'All. Although I don't like the title of the album, I am, as usual, really impressed with Travis, somewhat bashful about it as though I had a crush, and a little unsure why I don't listen to his music more. For those of you who don't know Travis, he was the leader of the Dismemberment Plan.
I'm also really pleased with a new CD by The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir, which I got on a whim after seeing it reviewed in an AMG newsletter and listening to the first song. They're pretty similar to the great, seemingly unknown Comet Gain. I guess it's indie punk: really melodic and bright-sounding songs with a dark undercurrent, tight playing, good lyrics, and poppy elements. Both bands are British. Both bands come up with excellent melodies for both verse and chorus, with varying male and female lead singers, and always lots of energy even on the slower songs. They're both inventive, using all sorts of rhythms, tempos, and supporting instruments, occasional vocal harmonies, and daringly poetic lyrics. I particularly love the Comet Gain, who are reminiscent of the Fall, the Pastels, the Go Betweens, and Dexy's Midnight Runners all on the same album.
Since I got my new job, I've been reading a lot of political blogs because I usually don't have any work, but I can't read books or magazines (I think--I still haven't asked). I'm particularly fond of The Daily Howler, which aggressively presents the case that the mainstream media reports conservative or Republican issues with a free pass, while they treat Democrats and liberal causes shabbily, to the point of lying and distorting things Democrats say in order to keep pounding away with story lines like "Gore is a big liar" or "Hillary is a ruthless faker". Somehow, though, I find that no matter how much time I spend each day reading about news and politics, be it blogs, newspapers or magazines, I never seem to have a good grasp of any issue. I guess I'd have to pick one issue and read just about it for a while, rather than generalized commentary or reporting from people who have been following all sorts of stories for years. Or are there other options? With the few months I read the Economist my knowledge of the world (from basic things like geography, to complex things like the after effects of the cold war) expanded greatly, but I found that it left me no time to read anything else, and I still didn't know much about domestic issues. What do my (what, like 5?) readers suggest?
I'm currently listening to the latest album by the Travis Morrisson Hellfighters, All Y'All. Although I don't like the title of the album, I am, as usual, really impressed with Travis, somewhat bashful about it as though I had a crush, and a little unsure why I don't listen to his music more. For those of you who don't know Travis, he was the leader of the Dismemberment Plan.
I'm also really pleased with a new CD by The Scotland Yard Gospel Choir, which I got on a whim after seeing it reviewed in an AMG newsletter and listening to the first song. They're pretty similar to the great, seemingly unknown Comet Gain. I guess it's indie punk: really melodic and bright-sounding songs with a dark undercurrent, tight playing, good lyrics, and poppy elements. Both bands are British. Both bands come up with excellent melodies for both verse and chorus, with varying male and female lead singers, and always lots of energy even on the slower songs. They're both inventive, using all sorts of rhythms, tempos, and supporting instruments, occasional vocal harmonies, and daringly poetic lyrics. I particularly love the Comet Gain, who are reminiscent of the Fall, the Pastels, the Go Betweens, and Dexy's Midnight Runners all on the same album.
Since I got my new job, I've been reading a lot of political blogs because I usually don't have any work, but I can't read books or magazines (I think--I still haven't asked). I'm particularly fond of The Daily Howler, which aggressively presents the case that the mainstream media reports conservative or Republican issues with a free pass, while they treat Democrats and liberal causes shabbily, to the point of lying and distorting things Democrats say in order to keep pounding away with story lines like "Gore is a big liar" or "Hillary is a ruthless faker". Somehow, though, I find that no matter how much time I spend each day reading about news and politics, be it blogs, newspapers or magazines, I never seem to have a good grasp of any issue. I guess I'd have to pick one issue and read just about it for a while, rather than generalized commentary or reporting from people who have been following all sorts of stories for years. Or are there other options? With the few months I read the Economist my knowledge of the world (from basic things like geography, to complex things like the after effects of the cold war) expanded greatly, but I found that it left me no time to read anything else, and I still didn't know much about domestic issues. What do my (what, like 5?) readers suggest?
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I am home on a lunch break, and for some reason I am experiencing a sense of lucidity and reawakening that I have somewhat rarely, a feeling of awareness and mental energy. It's hard to explain what it feels like, why it is that my thoughts seem to have a different tone from what I'm used to. I was just thinking about a call I made yesterday to the office of a dentist Anne and I went to early this year. I was calling to make a new appointment, and the receptionist told me that we had missed back-to-back appointments for September which I didn't know we had. He sounded pretty mad at me, and said, "You can't just not show up for an appointment. I called both of your phone numbers, and sent a postcard." I explained that we had moved and gotten new phones, and that I received none of his messages, and also didn't know we had made appointments.
I was left unsatisfied, because the receptionist didn't acknowledge anything I was saying. Just now I wanted to reach out to him somehow, with an email or a visit, and explain again that I was sorry but that I didn't think I had done anything wrong. Then somehow I got to thinking about how strange it was that I had a dentist, a person whose income depended on patients, people coming in for the service of having their teeth cleaned and examined. I am in a relationship with this woman, the dentist, that seems somehow unnatural, a result of the complicated social structure of modernity. Like pretty much everyone alive today, I have indistinct professional relationships with people who have received abstract credentials allowing them to perform well-defined services isolated from all other areas of life. I don't know the dentist as anything other than a dentist, nor her receptionist as anything other than a person who is employed by the dentist to answer a phone in her office, make appointments, and receive payments from patients.
I then thought about how strange it is that the tree in my back yard has a trunk that split early in its growth, so that it has branches and leaves growing out of two separate, equally thick parts; and sometimes the owner of my house hires people to come and cut off some of the branches on this living plant, because they happen to be growing in areas that threaten the house's roof.
What might I call thoughts like these? They seem strangely analytical, putting words to patterns of life that I usually act on without consciousness because I too am a part of the systems I'm examining.
Usually I just think about consuming, with unvocalized thoughts like "what can I eat now, because I'm hungry?" or "it's cold in here" or "maybe I can read Watchmen later today, when I get home." I've noticed in the last few days that my thoughts are usually very boring and relate only to myself, Anne, or Scott, and our immediate needs. I wonder why sometimes I seem to think in other ways, and why it's so rare.
I was left unsatisfied, because the receptionist didn't acknowledge anything I was saying. Just now I wanted to reach out to him somehow, with an email or a visit, and explain again that I was sorry but that I didn't think I had done anything wrong. Then somehow I got to thinking about how strange it was that I had a dentist, a person whose income depended on patients, people coming in for the service of having their teeth cleaned and examined. I am in a relationship with this woman, the dentist, that seems somehow unnatural, a result of the complicated social structure of modernity. Like pretty much everyone alive today, I have indistinct professional relationships with people who have received abstract credentials allowing them to perform well-defined services isolated from all other areas of life. I don't know the dentist as anything other than a dentist, nor her receptionist as anything other than a person who is employed by the dentist to answer a phone in her office, make appointments, and receive payments from patients.
I then thought about how strange it is that the tree in my back yard has a trunk that split early in its growth, so that it has branches and leaves growing out of two separate, equally thick parts; and sometimes the owner of my house hires people to come and cut off some of the branches on this living plant, because they happen to be growing in areas that threaten the house's roof.
What might I call thoughts like these? They seem strangely analytical, putting words to patterns of life that I usually act on without consciousness because I too am a part of the systems I'm examining.
Usually I just think about consuming, with unvocalized thoughts like "what can I eat now, because I'm hungry?" or "it's cold in here" or "maybe I can read Watchmen later today, when I get home." I've noticed in the last few days that my thoughts are usually very boring and relate only to myself, Anne, or Scott, and our immediate needs. I wonder why sometimes I seem to think in other ways, and why it's so rare.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
D. H. Lawrence wrote back in 1915 about why I dread going to work: it requires that I "put on the vulgar, shallow death of an outward existence." Every morning my "soul [grinds] in uneasiness and fear" as I see that my time as a hidden being has once again passed. It doesn't seem to matter that I don't have any difficult work, and it's only slightly improved by the light amount of interaction with the public. I felt nearly as much dread going into switchboard just for the call I knew I'd get from Lois and the interaction with security. At least now I don't have to hate the fact that I can't stay home at midnight and sleep in a bed. My current job is the best I've had as far as compensation, but somehow almost the worst for this feeling of soul grinding.
It's been four years since I had to work in a service position at a store, so maybe I've forgotten feeling this way then. My memory, anyway, is that at Safeway I felt like the day was lost if I had to work for part of it, but I don't remember dread. At the Moon Café I didn't really care, but then I barely got customers, and was also mildly insane. I can't remember how I felt about going to work at Barnes and Noble, even though it was the most recent of my service jobs. I know that I feared the supervisors and book floor workers, and mostly disliked the customers rather than shrank from them in my soul. I think I enjoyed working there, but this was tied to the fact that I was young enough to feel at home in a service position, had made friends, and never had to face customers alone.
Certainly my current job isn't the worst I've had. That would be Promissor. It made me feel so awful that I would eventually have swerved my car into one of the numerous trucks on I-95 during the forty-five minute commute if I had to keep working there for just a few more months. I felt the same soul grinding that I now feel once a day, only I felt it every five minutes, between calls. Even that wasn't so bad, because I drove to and from work with Anne, and the waves of calls mostly dissipated by 9:30 p.m.
At my current job, soul nausea comes from the presence of foreign entities in the communicating offices, and to a lesser extent because of the phone. I sit at an exposed desk by the (rarely used) front door, from which I can see the finance manager sitting at his computer, and I'm only paces away from the office manager. I can hear our accountant coughing or shifting in her cubicle, one wall of which is right in front of me. The others walk by frequently to get coffee or visit each other. None of these people are antagonistic, annoying, or stupid; my problem is that we are strangers to each other, even if I come to know their personalities, hear about or even meet their families, talk with them on breaks or at meetings. I could only feel more out of place if I went to sleep here and woke up in Russia.
Moreover, the work will be cyclical, boring, sometimes uncomfortable (if I am asked to help with training sessions), and completely unconnected to my personality. Still better than switchboard, but nowhere near where I want to be. A person could only like this job if they had no desire ever to work outside of offices, even though for an office job, I'm sure it's really quite good. I was scared rather than excited when the finance manager told me that there were a lot of opportunities with this company. I just wish I could make enough money to live without working for other people. I suppose eventually I may have to write just to survive my fear that I'll never do anything with my life.
It's been four years since I had to work in a service position at a store, so maybe I've forgotten feeling this way then. My memory, anyway, is that at Safeway I felt like the day was lost if I had to work for part of it, but I don't remember dread. At the Moon Café I didn't really care, but then I barely got customers, and was also mildly insane. I can't remember how I felt about going to work at Barnes and Noble, even though it was the most recent of my service jobs. I know that I feared the supervisors and book floor workers, and mostly disliked the customers rather than shrank from them in my soul. I think I enjoyed working there, but this was tied to the fact that I was young enough to feel at home in a service position, had made friends, and never had to face customers alone.
Certainly my current job isn't the worst I've had. That would be Promissor. It made me feel so awful that I would eventually have swerved my car into one of the numerous trucks on I-95 during the forty-five minute commute if I had to keep working there for just a few more months. I felt the same soul grinding that I now feel once a day, only I felt it every five minutes, between calls. Even that wasn't so bad, because I drove to and from work with Anne, and the waves of calls mostly dissipated by 9:30 p.m.
At my current job, soul nausea comes from the presence of foreign entities in the communicating offices, and to a lesser extent because of the phone. I sit at an exposed desk by the (rarely used) front door, from which I can see the finance manager sitting at his computer, and I'm only paces away from the office manager. I can hear our accountant coughing or shifting in her cubicle, one wall of which is right in front of me. The others walk by frequently to get coffee or visit each other. None of these people are antagonistic, annoying, or stupid; my problem is that we are strangers to each other, even if I come to know their personalities, hear about or even meet their families, talk with them on breaks or at meetings. I could only feel more out of place if I went to sleep here and woke up in Russia.
Moreover, the work will be cyclical, boring, sometimes uncomfortable (if I am asked to help with training sessions), and completely unconnected to my personality. Still better than switchboard, but nowhere near where I want to be. A person could only like this job if they had no desire ever to work outside of offices, even though for an office job, I'm sure it's really quite good. I was scared rather than excited when the finance manager told me that there were a lot of opportunities with this company. I just wish I could make enough money to live without working for other people. I suppose eventually I may have to write just to survive my fear that I'll never do anything with my life.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Yesterday I started a new job at the National Education Association, at their New Mexico headquarters in Santa Fe. The position is titled "Program Assistant/Receptionist"; so far I've only been trained in the receptionist duties. Oddly, it is the receptionist who makes the mail and bank run every day, and also restocks office supplies--I believe because the woman who vacated the receptionist position volunteered for those duties. She seems a lot like my mother, who feels the need to do as much work as there is to do, whether they give her more pay and respect or not, whether she likes the company or not. The former receptionist told me yesterday that she has trouble remembering to take her afternoon break, because she gets so busy, a problem which I presume I won't have no matter how busy it gets. So far the receptionist part has been boring and a little anxiety inducing, as I'll explain later.
I'm hoping I'll like the assistant position more. I'll be helping the "UniServ" who covers the northeastern and central New Mexico school districts. UniServs are the people who handle contract negotiation and conflict mediation, find (or offer, not sure yet) representation for union members who have legal trouble, lobby local governments, and other things I'm not clear on yet. My UniServ doesn't come into the office more than a few times a week, because he mainly does meetings all over the state. He hasn't come in since I started working. Eventually I'll be composing letters, proofreading, designing signs, and whatever else he needs. I'll also be maintaining a database detailing union dues by member. So far I've gotten no work on that end, because the people who are going to give it to me are, I guess, too busy.
This means that I have yet another job which, at least for now, consists of waiting for a phone to ring, and dealing with callers when it does. I wish I could have a job that didn't involve phones. Even though I've had nothing much to do so far, I already dread going to work; there's something awful about being attached to a desk with nothing to do. It's not that I hate dealing with phone calls, exactly. If they were for me, I'd feel a lot better. But the uncertainty of calls--not knowing when anyone will call, who they are, what I'm supposed to do with them--instills in me a baseline of anxiety the whole time I'm at work. When I applied for this position, the office manager seemed concerned primarily that I be able to work with frequent interruptions, which I feel okay about. I'm not upset by the interruptions as much as the anxiety. If I have nothing to do, the phone only serves as a constant reminder that I might, at any time, be required to speak professionally with strangers. I can't retreat into privacy, which is what I tend toward naturally. If I'm busy in the future, as everyone keeps telling me I will be, the phone's presence would mean that I couldn't ever get completely lost in details.
So far, I'm pretty much stuck with surfing the internet or writing emails and blogs; things which I enjoy doing, but usually for less than an hour a day. I have now had nearly every iteration of things I can do while waiting for the phone to ring (or, in the case of QAI, having babies and small children playing in the corner of my eye): first I could read and listen to music, with breaks; then I couldn't do either of those things, but could play lots of Spider Solitaire (Promissor . . . rawr!); next I was able to do just about anything, even sleep, but had to stay at the switchboard the whole time; and now I can surf the internet, but not listen to music, presumably not read a book, and certainly not sleep, but I get two breaks and an hour and fifteen minute lunch (it's a union, what do you expect?).
I miss the library, and it would be nice if I could start graduate school. This new job, at least, pays very well (by my standards, at any rate), provides excellent benefits, and has opportunities for advancement. All told, any problems I have with the job pale in comparison with that lineup. Someday, though, I will have a room without a hideous oversized phone at my elbow, and maybe even the ability to feel like myself all the time.
I'm hoping I'll like the assistant position more. I'll be helping the "UniServ" who covers the northeastern and central New Mexico school districts. UniServs are the people who handle contract negotiation and conflict mediation, find (or offer, not sure yet) representation for union members who have legal trouble, lobby local governments, and other things I'm not clear on yet. My UniServ doesn't come into the office more than a few times a week, because he mainly does meetings all over the state. He hasn't come in since I started working. Eventually I'll be composing letters, proofreading, designing signs, and whatever else he needs. I'll also be maintaining a database detailing union dues by member. So far I've gotten no work on that end, because the people who are going to give it to me are, I guess, too busy.
This means that I have yet another job which, at least for now, consists of waiting for a phone to ring, and dealing with callers when it does. I wish I could have a job that didn't involve phones. Even though I've had nothing much to do so far, I already dread going to work; there's something awful about being attached to a desk with nothing to do. It's not that I hate dealing with phone calls, exactly. If they were for me, I'd feel a lot better. But the uncertainty of calls--not knowing when anyone will call, who they are, what I'm supposed to do with them--instills in me a baseline of anxiety the whole time I'm at work. When I applied for this position, the office manager seemed concerned primarily that I be able to work with frequent interruptions, which I feel okay about. I'm not upset by the interruptions as much as the anxiety. If I have nothing to do, the phone only serves as a constant reminder that I might, at any time, be required to speak professionally with strangers. I can't retreat into privacy, which is what I tend toward naturally. If I'm busy in the future, as everyone keeps telling me I will be, the phone's presence would mean that I couldn't ever get completely lost in details.
So far, I'm pretty much stuck with surfing the internet or writing emails and blogs; things which I enjoy doing, but usually for less than an hour a day. I have now had nearly every iteration of things I can do while waiting for the phone to ring (or, in the case of QAI, having babies and small children playing in the corner of my eye): first I could read and listen to music, with breaks; then I couldn't do either of those things, but could play lots of Spider Solitaire (Promissor . . . rawr!); next I was able to do just about anything, even sleep, but had to stay at the switchboard the whole time; and now I can surf the internet, but not listen to music, presumably not read a book, and certainly not sleep, but I get two breaks and an hour and fifteen minute lunch (it's a union, what do you expect?).
I miss the library, and it would be nice if I could start graduate school. This new job, at least, pays very well (by my standards, at any rate), provides excellent benefits, and has opportunities for advancement. All told, any problems I have with the job pale in comparison with that lineup. Someday, though, I will have a room without a hideous oversized phone at my elbow, and maybe even the ability to feel like myself all the time.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Last night I was sitting at my kitchen table with a plate of spaghetti that had grown cold an hour before as I'd forgotten to attend to it, and instead was watching the shadows shift as the light spread across the room. When it was cut off by the curtain, I got up and went to the window, and there was the moon looking in on me from across the yard. I greeted her, and she waved. "Do you want to come in?"
"Well, maybe for a few minutes. Why not?"
I pushed the panes open and she floated inside, coming to rest on a chair across from my spaghetti. The room became dark.
"Do you have anything for me to reflect?"
"I'm afraid I don't have anything to compare to what you're used to. My means are limited. How about this, will this do?" I took a table lamp from the living room and plugged it in on the kitchen counter.
"Maybe you could remove the shade? That's better."
"Would you like anything to eat? I have some leftover Chinese if you're interested."
"No, I'm fine, thanks. Unless you've got a pumpkin somewhere."
"Is that what you eat?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I'm mostly pumpkin."
"Just a second. I'll be right back." I went to the porch and chose a pumpkin I'd set aside for carving, short and with a broad face. The stars shone impassively in the space vaceted by the moon. I brought the pumpkin back and asked if it would do.
"It looks delicious. Turn away if you don't mind." When I turned back, the pumpkin was gone and the moon had taken on an orange tint in the light from the lamp bulb. It suited her features. "If you don't mind my asking," she said, "why do you keep referring to me as 'she'?"
"Aren't you? A woman, I mean? Luna, you know. I thought it meant . . . "
"It's a common misconception. I'm not really gendered, though. That kind of thing is just myth."
"Still, it seems appropriate."
"I'll admit that it's more poetic, but really I'm just mineral."
"I thought you said you were mostly pumpkin."
"Sure, but do pumpkins have genders?"
I sat pondering that, and the moon started to look a bit restless. I said that I'd understand if it was time to get going.
"Nice seeing you," it said.
"Come back anytime." Then it rose to the window and slipped through the trees to join the watchful stars.
"Well, maybe for a few minutes. Why not?"
I pushed the panes open and she floated inside, coming to rest on a chair across from my spaghetti. The room became dark.
"Do you have anything for me to reflect?"
"I'm afraid I don't have anything to compare to what you're used to. My means are limited. How about this, will this do?" I took a table lamp from the living room and plugged it in on the kitchen counter.
"Maybe you could remove the shade? That's better."
"Would you like anything to eat? I have some leftover Chinese if you're interested."
"No, I'm fine, thanks. Unless you've got a pumpkin somewhere."
"Is that what you eat?"
"Yes. As a matter of fact, I'm mostly pumpkin."
"Just a second. I'll be right back." I went to the porch and chose a pumpkin I'd set aside for carving, short and with a broad face. The stars shone impassively in the space vaceted by the moon. I brought the pumpkin back and asked if it would do.
"It looks delicious. Turn away if you don't mind." When I turned back, the pumpkin was gone and the moon had taken on an orange tint in the light from the lamp bulb. It suited her features. "If you don't mind my asking," she said, "why do you keep referring to me as 'she'?"
"Aren't you? A woman, I mean? Luna, you know. I thought it meant . . . "
"It's a common misconception. I'm not really gendered, though. That kind of thing is just myth."
"Still, it seems appropriate."
"I'll admit that it's more poetic, but really I'm just mineral."
"I thought you said you were mostly pumpkin."
"Sure, but do pumpkins have genders?"
I sat pondering that, and the moon started to look a bit restless. I said that I'd understand if it was time to get going.
"Nice seeing you," it said.
"Come back anytime." Then it rose to the window and slipped through the trees to join the watchful stars.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
It is that most evil hour, between four a.m. and five; the light looks yellow and uriney, and objects only come into focus when I look directly at them. Even then they look like they're being projected onto some disgusting surface by the illusion-casting lamps of the universe. There's a tingling in my scalp as though worms were crawling around in there. My eyes feel like marbles someone has thrust into a jello mould. This happens even tonight, when I woke up at 9 p.m. I suppose circadian rhythems exist.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Time at the Switchboard is refractory. It's starting to feel, when I turn off all the lights I can and lie down on the rough carpet, like I'm being observed remotely. The dim light is charged with the tension of after-hours; it feels like no one is supposed to be here, ever; it feels like I am taking refuge from a war.
This morning I woke twice: first at 3:45 a.m. from a dream in which Jeff and his friend Rob, and George Wendt, brought pizza to the switchboard, and then to a phone call. I did not get back to sleep. I heard someone unlock one of the doors, and two people talking back and forth for at least twenty minutes, a chatty woman and an inquisitive man, the noise floating above me on the floor preventing me from drifting and sinking into the carpet and through the floor into sleep. I find that when I try to get to sleep and am interrupted, I float down; when there is nothing interrupting me but I still can't lose consciousness, I float up; and when I fall to sleep I am not there to float.
Eric made a website: highqualitytime.blogspot.com. It will not take long to view.
This morning I woke twice: first at 3:45 a.m. from a dream in which Jeff and his friend Rob, and George Wendt, brought pizza to the switchboard, and then to a phone call. I did not get back to sleep. I heard someone unlock one of the doors, and two people talking back and forth for at least twenty minutes, a chatty woman and an inquisitive man, the noise floating above me on the floor preventing me from drifting and sinking into the carpet and through the floor into sleep. I find that when I try to get to sleep and am interrupted, I float down; when there is nothing interrupting me but I still can't lose consciousness, I float up; and when I fall to sleep I am not there to float.
Eric made a website: highqualitytime.blogspot.com. It will not take long to view.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
I quite like Santa Fe in fall, although I can't describe it too well because I don't get out much. It hasn't got the elaborate changing colors of Maryland, but leaves still fall, and brown seed pods, and the wind still blows them around, making a delightful whispering swish. The sunlight becomes more noticably slanted, as though it were filtered through water, casting an ambient glow rather than the shocking search-light quality it has in springtime, or the beating waves of light and heat in the summer. I could do without the chamisa, though; it's mostly done blooming now, I guess, because my eyes no longer feel like they're being squeezed with a hot lead vise, but I've still got a useless cough and raspy lungs. The rainy season is mostly over now, but the air often feels like a storm has just passed through and cleared things up. There is a lingering summer heat wave, noticable but thankfullly not overwhelming. At night I wish the mountains would cease their vigil so they could step down into the flat southern part of town, maybe huddle around a campfire and roast the remaining tourists, sparks simmering and flickering in the black around them, and tell me stories that would explain everything I always wanted to know.
I've been reading Iliads, comparing them with the Greek often, wondering why I care so much but trying still, uselessly, to catch a bit of meaning with some tweezers, draw it through the air and snap it out of the book like stubborn sinew clinging to bone, and maybe pin it to my wall like a trophy. I'd make a little plaque commemorating myself: Greg finally got it. Anne's starting school in just two days now, because there was a last minute opening in the Fall Freshman class. I think I'll go through the seminar with her, at least, and perhaps that way finally get away from the lingering feeling that I missed everything, maybe understood broadly some of the philosophy and learned to read Greek passably along with a translation, and French reasonably well, understood most of the math and some of the science, and fell down like a bitch in the ring with religion and literature. Why am I afraid that I didn't understand the Greek plays? Why do I still think that attempting to understand is the right approach?
I've been reading Iliads, comparing them with the Greek often, wondering why I care so much but trying still, uselessly, to catch a bit of meaning with some tweezers, draw it through the air and snap it out of the book like stubborn sinew clinging to bone, and maybe pin it to my wall like a trophy. I'd make a little plaque commemorating myself: Greg finally got it. Anne's starting school in just two days now, because there was a last minute opening in the Fall Freshman class. I think I'll go through the seminar with her, at least, and perhaps that way finally get away from the lingering feeling that I missed everything, maybe understood broadly some of the philosophy and learned to read Greek passably along with a translation, and French reasonably well, understood most of the math and some of the science, and fell down like a bitch in the ring with religion and literature. Why am I afraid that I didn't understand the Greek plays? Why do I still think that attempting to understand is the right approach?
Friday, August 17, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
I can see very starkly now, pretty much for the first time, the difference between "modern novels" and earlier fiction. I don't know why something like this should have taken so long, and it's realizations of that sort which make me question my own intelligence. Why didn't I understand this before now? It doesn't seem difficult or uncommon. It seems like many people are interested in and understand things like this in high school, and here I am at 24 still stuck on things that really aren't very interesting. Am I wrong?
I'm trying to figure out what I meant by "things like this" above. The most simple interpretation is that I mean developments in art. The understanding that there is a qualitative difference between, say, sixties pop songs and punk rock, or between European fashion and American. On another level, I think I mean a level of cognition that would also comprehend the second meanings of politicians, or the fake world of advertising. Behold my inferiority complex: I actually often think that my capacity to understand is lower than aware high school students.
I'm trying to figure out what I meant by "things like this" above. The most simple interpretation is that I mean developments in art. The understanding that there is a qualitative difference between, say, sixties pop songs and punk rock, or between European fashion and American. On another level, I think I mean a level of cognition that would also comprehend the second meanings of politicians, or the fake world of advertising. Behold my inferiority complex: I actually often think that my capacity to understand is lower than aware high school students.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Polewach has (jokingly?) declared the pointlessness of reading 19th century novels (his language is that it's irrelevant, with the joke perhaps being that he doesn't think any literature is relevant). Much reading of old fiction juxtaposed with new is leading me toward the same conclusion that novels, even when they're interesting, are pointless. I probably arrive at this conclusion from a very different angle because, well, I never really know what John's saying or why.
I used to think that I read fiction for reasons beyond entertainment. I'm not really sure what I thought those reasons were, because I've never been a deep thinker. Really I usually read (I'm thinking of high school and into college here) because I was solitary and impressionable, I liked stories, and I believed that reading "important books" was necessary for someone who wanted to be "intelligent". I found reading enjoyable even when I didn't even follow the story, let alone any other meaning of the text, because I responded to the different rhythems and and dictions, and it gave me a vague but often stirring feeling of being somewhere else, as another person, much like in dreams. When I think about why fiction might be worthwhile, I fall back on the following very common postulates: 1. Fiction might help me understand life, or appreciate it better (recognize patterns, experience people and events more critically, appreciate the weight of decisions before making them). 2. Through stories, writers are able to examine and communicate ideas, even complex ones, in a way more immediate and accessible than standard argument.
I look at these postulates now and recognize them as belonging very much to the 19th century. I don't really know how thought about literature has developed since then, if it has. I see also that these postulates are very rarely true, at least for me. I mostly read for entertainment, historical curiosity, and the excitement I get from seeing a writer's abilities. Additionally, I recognize that the better writers tend to consciously examine social conditions and human psychology; but honestly I don't know that I get much out of it when they do. So why do I read fiction instead of quilt, or bet on horses? Dunno. Moreover, why do I stubbornly still think I ought to read, say, Fielding or even, as I did early this year, everything by Flaubert? Dunno.
I used to think that I read fiction for reasons beyond entertainment. I'm not really sure what I thought those reasons were, because I've never been a deep thinker. Really I usually read (I'm thinking of high school and into college here) because I was solitary and impressionable, I liked stories, and I believed that reading "important books" was necessary for someone who wanted to be "intelligent". I found reading enjoyable even when I didn't even follow the story, let alone any other meaning of the text, because I responded to the different rhythems and and dictions, and it gave me a vague but often stirring feeling of being somewhere else, as another person, much like in dreams. When I think about why fiction might be worthwhile, I fall back on the following very common postulates: 1. Fiction might help me understand life, or appreciate it better (recognize patterns, experience people and events more critically, appreciate the weight of decisions before making them). 2. Through stories, writers are able to examine and communicate ideas, even complex ones, in a way more immediate and accessible than standard argument.
I look at these postulates now and recognize them as belonging very much to the 19th century. I don't really know how thought about literature has developed since then, if it has. I see also that these postulates are very rarely true, at least for me. I mostly read for entertainment, historical curiosity, and the excitement I get from seeing a writer's abilities. Additionally, I recognize that the better writers tend to consciously examine social conditions and human psychology; but honestly I don't know that I get much out of it when they do. So why do I read fiction instead of quilt, or bet on horses? Dunno. Moreover, why do I stubbornly still think I ought to read, say, Fielding or even, as I did early this year, everything by Flaubert? Dunno.
Monday, August 06, 2007
This is the new face of St. John's College: stone-faced, chill, perhaps taken aback by what he's looking at but trying not to show it. And what is he looking at? I believe it to be a male strip-tease. Notice the excited interest of the dude in the plaid shirt, and the big smile on the girl's face. I believe the strip-tease artist is Mr. Grenke.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
I have a new desktop computer. The monitor is huge and black-bordered, the tower is futuristic grey, the mouse is bulbous, the speakers are small and powerful-looking, and the keyboard is soft and fluffy. Now I can finally download music again, and . . . play World of Warcraft, and . . . yes, I said it. And also . . . that's about it, really.
Monday, July 09, 2007
I have been trying to structure my time better, since I get depressed when I don't plan. Pants get tossed all over my sentences, food grime builds up on my words, and I have to pay more per letter. If I could only manage to sleep at work, my collar would slide off. My tea is cooling before I can drink it, and my stomach is probably too floppy anyway, but later I have Lyly and Pullman. Too bad my dry wall is bleeding.