(Or, more accurately, the 5-10 people who read or have ever read this blog. But enough with trivialities. On to the question.)
The question being: Is there anyone out there in the world who watches as much YouTube as I do? If so, does that person have some free time between June 28-30 of 2012? And would that person want to go to Anaheim with me? You know. Could be fun...
Heavens, that was three times the questions I originally intended to ask. If only other parts of life were so unexpectedly overabundant. Right. Bed.
Cheers.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
5 Things I Know to be True
So...
Lately, I've kinda, sorta, maybe lost a tiny little bit of focus when it comes to my blog. Or my future. Or my plans. Or much of anything. Therefore, in an attempt to regain my focus--and maybe a little creativity at the same time--I am stealing a poetry exercise from Sarah Kay.
5 Things I Know to be True:
1.) I love knowing things. (Maybe not the "learning" part necessarily, but I am deeply fond of being a walking, talking Lins-apedia.)
2.) I like smart people. I love kind people. (I know there are millions of different kinds of smart, but I believe that the socially aware, academically bent, well spoken, open-minded, genuine and creative spirits are the ones I want in my life most of all.)
3.) I'm afraid of failure. (I'm trying to change this about myself. Something about learning and growing and what not.)
4.) I'm rather introspective. (As I am sure is obvious to you, seeing as four of my five truths are about me. But then, if we do not know ourselves, how can we ever hope to know the world?)
5.) All the knowledge in the world is worth nothing in the face of human relationships. (I believe this to be true. Sometimes it is just hard to remember that I do. So to Libby and Calli and Sara, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I can. Mostly because of you.)
P.S. - If you would like to, please feel free to reply with Truths of your own, for we could all use a little more truth in this life.
Lately, I've kinda, sorta, maybe lost a tiny little bit of focus when it comes to my blog. Or my future. Or my plans. Or much of anything. Therefore, in an attempt to regain my focus--and maybe a little creativity at the same time--I am stealing a poetry exercise from Sarah Kay.
5 Things I Know to be True:
1.) I love knowing things. (Maybe not the "learning" part necessarily, but I am deeply fond of being a walking, talking Lins-apedia.)
2.) I like smart people. I love kind people. (I know there are millions of different kinds of smart, but I believe that the socially aware, academically bent, well spoken, open-minded, genuine and creative spirits are the ones I want in my life most of all.)
3.) I'm afraid of failure. (I'm trying to change this about myself. Something about learning and growing and what not.)
4.) I'm rather introspective. (As I am sure is obvious to you, seeing as four of my five truths are about me. But then, if we do not know ourselves, how can we ever hope to know the world?)
5.) All the knowledge in the world is worth nothing in the face of human relationships. (I believe this to be true. Sometimes it is just hard to remember that I do. So to Libby and Calli and Sara, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I can. Mostly because of you.)
P.S. - If you would like to, please feel free to reply with Truths of your own, for we could all use a little more truth in this life.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
I Sound My Barbaric Yawp
Today I felt a little brokenhearted.
I felt stupid.
I felt trapped.
I felt lonely.
I felt listless.
I felt the guilt that comes with being listless.
In the face of this brokenhearted-ness I employed the usual tricks.
Music.
Books.
Cosmos.
The Brinker.
Sheldon Cooper.
No dice.
And so, tonight dear reader, I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world.
I felt stupid.
I felt trapped.
I felt lonely.
I felt listless.
I felt the guilt that comes with being listless.
In the face of this brokenhearted-ness I employed the usual tricks.
Music.
Books.
Cosmos.
The Brinker.
Sheldon Cooper.
No dice.
And so, tonight dear reader, I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Flunk 'em
If I had the inclination or the time I have no doubt I could turn my entire blog into a rant on the state of education in America. But for now I shall simply say that having recently begun volunteering in my old high school I have come to realize that Teachers. Are. Amazing.
With the amount of pressure and pay-freezing and red tape and paperwork and busywork and "measurable objectives" and parental harassment and student apathy that they have to put up with, it is a wonder they keep showing up to work at all.
Enough with teaching to the lowest common denominator, say I. If a student can't be bothered to show up, do the work, pay attention, and respect themselves, their peers, and their teachers, I have only this to say: Flunk 'em.
With the amount of pressure and pay-freezing and red tape and paperwork and busywork and "measurable objectives" and parental harassment and student apathy that they have to put up with, it is a wonder they keep showing up to work at all.
Enough with teaching to the lowest common denominator, say I. If a student can't be bothered to show up, do the work, pay attention, and respect themselves, their peers, and their teachers, I have only this to say: Flunk 'em.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Thoughts on "The Help" and Hope
I just saw The Help.
After reading this most touching and entertaining of NYTBSers and then seeing the stories of these women on the screen I feel as though I better understand that hope--that seemingly impossible dream--spoken of by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. so many years ago.
Though, in truth, I do not fully understand the catalyst (if there is one) for The Help at this time. (That is to say, why now? Why this subject, at this time, to this American audience?)
You see, I have never witnessed real oppression. Aside from one stray rock aimed at my head by a mere school child, I have never felt persecution against my person for any reason, be it racial or cultural or social or economic or otherwise. I have never felt trapped by circumstances beyond my control to the point of physical anguish, nor have I felt the need to crush the spirit of another in order to assert my own identity. By all considerable standards I have led a blissful, conflict free existence for 23 years and counting. I have never had to face a group of angry individuals, mobilized and united against me or a cause I symbolize, nor have I felt the need to join a group and use whatever means necessary to make my voice heard.
After reading this most touching and entertaining of NYTBSers and then seeing the stories of these women on the screen I feel as though I better understand that hope--that seemingly impossible dream--spoken of by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. so many years ago.
Though, in truth, I do not fully understand the catalyst (if there is one) for The Help at this time. (That is to say, why now? Why this subject, at this time, to this American audience?)
You see, I have never witnessed real oppression. Aside from one stray rock aimed at my head by a mere school child, I have never felt persecution against my person for any reason, be it racial or cultural or social or economic or otherwise. I have never felt trapped by circumstances beyond my control to the point of physical anguish, nor have I felt the need to crush the spirit of another in order to assert my own identity. By all considerable standards I have led a blissful, conflict free existence for 23 years and counting. I have never had to face a group of angry individuals, mobilized and united against me or a cause I symbolize, nor have I felt the need to join a group and use whatever means necessary to make my voice heard.
For these reasons I doubt my opinions on matters like riots and Civil Rights (which, indeed, I was not even alive to witness, let alone experience first hand) or even the greater implication of watching this film are of great consequence...and yet, I feel compelled to add a few words in amongst those of Dr. King. For while I may have no experience with racism in the context of its portrayal in this beautiful film, I would hope that the original speaker of the "I Have A Dream" speech would not object to these additions:
that we would all live in a world and a society wherein people are not judged (and do not themselves judge) others by
skin color,
religion,
sexual predetermination,
level of attractiveness,
pant size,
quantity of income,
language spoken,
occupation,
degree of formal edification,
family background,
home country. or state. or town,
or any other factor that does not make a person who they are. Rather, I would hope and dream and pray, as Dr. King did, that all people might one day be loved for and judged by and counted as valuable because of "the content of their character."
Here's to hope. And to The Help. If you have not yet read or watched it, I would encourage you to do so.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
give thanks where 'tis due
Sometimes, in life, when one puts a great deal of effort into something, that effort is not rewarded or even acknowledged. And that sucks.
So to all of you out there, working hard, being generous with your time and your talents, who, for various reasons, are not being given the attention and thanks that you deserve: THANK YOU.
So to all of you out there, working hard, being generous with your time and your talents, who, for various reasons, are not being given the attention and thanks that you deserve: THANK YOU.
Friday, August 19, 2011
For the Birds
I cannot say if this is true of all doves, or if perhaps it is something particular to the doves that reside in my hometown, but either way, I still find it odd. For unlike other members of the natural world that occasionally find themselves face to hood with an oncoming automobile, the greater dove population of Montrose county will more often than not fly directly at the grill of a muddy F1-50. Other, perhaps more highly developed creatures, like cats and skunks will run and/or waddle like hell when the prospect of fast approaching death looks them squarely in over-pronounced, red eyes. (Indeed I sometimes wonder which of these reactions is more human--or, at least, ought to be more human...Should a person flee when the bright lights of the inevitable shine mercilessly down upon them? Or, like the Colorado dove, should mankind take a hint and learn to steer into the oncoming doom, tail-feather to the wind, having achieved Nirvana through the electric charge from the nearby phone line, fully embracing the splatter that is to come?)
As I said before, I have not really witnessed this kamikaze-like behavior in the doves of say, Seattle or Denver. Nor have I noted such species as the stately Robin, petite Finch, or elusive Lark Bunting acting in a similar manner. Considering that these are all songbirds of one sort or another, one could assume, I suppose, that the local dove population is awash with envy due to its less than attractive plumage or its inability to entertain its neighbors with songs so sweet and melodious as that of the Rockin Robin.
Or, perhaps just as likely, it is not so much the other kids on the playground that drive the dove to demonstrations of dive-bombing, but rather it is the playground itself. For in all honesty, the town in which these seemingly-suicidal doves live and move and have their tragically short being is not the most ideal location, be ye dove or be ye, well, dead. The mountainous/desert climate of this area does not yield an abundance of sustenance in the seed and fruit departments, and even if it did, dove are not exactly territorial when it comes to claiming their slice of the cherry pie. And while I don't profess to be an authority on all things avian, I imagine that the social lives of small town Colorado Columbidae are somewhat similar to those of poodles in the dog world. Sure, in a city like New York or L.A. doves and pigeons, like poodles, have a prescribed roll and a comfortable (if not always respected) place in society. But far from the cathedrals or trash cans or padded purses of metropolitan living it seems that ugly birds--like ugly, puffball dogs--lose their sense of identity and purpose in life in much the same way humans can, and so often do.
Maybe the doves suffer from more than disproportionately small heads (hence the tiny brains.) Maybe years of being picked on for not being brightly colored or gifted singers or particularly sturdy nest-builders finally gets to each dove in its turn and it feels like its only recourse is to wait on that yellow line and pray for a sporty little Subaru to save it from itself.
Or maybe that isn't it at all, and these rats with wings are not to be pitied, but admired.
Perhaps they are the thrill seekers, risk-takers, and Evel Knievel wannabes of the Animalia--Chordata--Aves world, choosing to express what they might lack in intellect and glittering high notes through acts of sheer, ah-hem, pluck. Maybe waiting directly in the path of oncoming vehicles provides these delicate creatures with an adrenaline rush the likes of which humanity can never know. Maybe a panel of Simon Cowell-like Thrush watch from a nearby fence-post, prepared to judge and condemn a failed half-nelson with a twist or praise a spur of the moment triple tail loop. It could be that, like warriors of old, it is only the bravest and most bloodied combatant who gets the girl when the credits roll.
Maybe the sight and smell of millions of insects, fresh caught, filleted and cooking in the summer heat is so appetizing that they simply cannot resist a lure so sweet...like jumping out a plane in the event someone threw a Klondike bar to earth from a hight of 40,000 feet. What we'd all do for love of a few calories, right?
Or, perhaps it is simply that, like the people driving the cars that hit them, these gentle symbols of peace are merely trying to get from point A to point B in this life. Maybe they are trying to promote gentleness and harmony by never raising their voice to anyone, doing no more or less than the universe ever asked of them since time began and they first brought hope to humanity by discovering the source of a truly great martini. Maybe each dove is a martyr--an offering and a prayer given on behalf of mankind as if the dirt road were a temple and the the hood of a Toyota were a holy alter. Perhaps when the end comes, and their large eyes widen all the more in death, Solomon would still declare them beautiful, though they weep for him even as they shatter like clay upon the ground.
Maybe there really is more to a dove than what meets the undercarriage?
As I said before, I have not really witnessed this kamikaze-like behavior in the doves of say, Seattle or Denver. Nor have I noted such species as the stately Robin, petite Finch, or elusive Lark Bunting acting in a similar manner. Considering that these are all songbirds of one sort or another, one could assume, I suppose, that the local dove population is awash with envy due to its less than attractive plumage or its inability to entertain its neighbors with songs so sweet and melodious as that of the Rockin Robin.
Or, perhaps just as likely, it is not so much the other kids on the playground that drive the dove to demonstrations of dive-bombing, but rather it is the playground itself. For in all honesty, the town in which these seemingly-suicidal doves live and move and have their tragically short being is not the most ideal location, be ye dove or be ye, well, dead. The mountainous/desert climate of this area does not yield an abundance of sustenance in the seed and fruit departments, and even if it did, dove are not exactly territorial when it comes to claiming their slice of the cherry pie. And while I don't profess to be an authority on all things avian, I imagine that the social lives of small town Colorado Columbidae are somewhat similar to those of poodles in the dog world. Sure, in a city like New York or L.A. doves and pigeons, like poodles, have a prescribed roll and a comfortable (if not always respected) place in society. But far from the cathedrals or trash cans or padded purses of metropolitan living it seems that ugly birds--like ugly, puffball dogs--lose their sense of identity and purpose in life in much the same way humans can, and so often do.
Maybe the doves suffer from more than disproportionately small heads (hence the tiny brains.) Maybe years of being picked on for not being brightly colored or gifted singers or particularly sturdy nest-builders finally gets to each dove in its turn and it feels like its only recourse is to wait on that yellow line and pray for a sporty little Subaru to save it from itself.
Or maybe that isn't it at all, and these rats with wings are not to be pitied, but admired.
Perhaps they are the thrill seekers, risk-takers, and Evel Knievel wannabes of the Animalia--Chordata--Aves world, choosing to express what they might lack in intellect and glittering high notes through acts of sheer, ah-hem, pluck. Maybe waiting directly in the path of oncoming vehicles provides these delicate creatures with an adrenaline rush the likes of which humanity can never know. Maybe a panel of Simon Cowell-like Thrush watch from a nearby fence-post, prepared to judge and condemn a failed half-nelson with a twist or praise a spur of the moment triple tail loop. It could be that, like warriors of old, it is only the bravest and most bloodied combatant who gets the girl when the credits roll.
Maybe the sight and smell of millions of insects, fresh caught, filleted and cooking in the summer heat is so appetizing that they simply cannot resist a lure so sweet...like jumping out a plane in the event someone threw a Klondike bar to earth from a hight of 40,000 feet. What we'd all do for love of a few calories, right?
Or, perhaps it is simply that, like the people driving the cars that hit them, these gentle symbols of peace are merely trying to get from point A to point B in this life. Maybe they are trying to promote gentleness and harmony by never raising their voice to anyone, doing no more or less than the universe ever asked of them since time began and they first brought hope to humanity by discovering the source of a truly great martini. Maybe each dove is a martyr--an offering and a prayer given on behalf of mankind as if the dirt road were a temple and the the hood of a Toyota were a holy alter. Perhaps when the end comes, and their large eyes widen all the more in death, Solomon would still declare them beautiful, though they weep for him even as they shatter like clay upon the ground.
Maybe there really is more to a dove than what meets the undercarriage?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Oxford...again?
Last night I had the pleasure of talking with one of the summer interns who works for a church in my hometown. It would have been a wholly unremarkable experience if the subject of Oxford had not come up in conversation. As it turns out, he (and I, in my own little way) studied there around the same time and have since discovered a profound mutual love of the place, the educational opportunities accorded there, and, in a grander view, for European life in general. This discovery, however random, rekindled within me the desire to research those possibilities--however vague or distant they may be--that exist in the realm of my future life in so far as I hope to end up in England.
And yes, it is true that I still have a lot of reading to do, and my existing writing samples are so poor that they make me cry a little whenever I think about them, and then there is the prospect of the almighty dollar (or, in this case, pound. Oh help...) but despite all of these things, I still want to learn. And I suppose that is what really matters. I want to know things and surround myself with sundry folk in an atmosphere of constant consideration and cogitation (GRE word of the day, check.)
...Now, if only money were no object, I could begin in ernest! Nevertheless I shall continue to wait tables with a smile on my face, ever dreaming of the possibilities that await this (temporarily) detained wanderer.
And yes, it is true that I still have a lot of reading to do, and my existing writing samples are so poor that they make me cry a little whenever I think about them, and then there is the prospect of the almighty dollar (or, in this case, pound. Oh help...) but despite all of these things, I still want to learn. And I suppose that is what really matters. I want to know things and surround myself with sundry folk in an atmosphere of constant consideration and cogitation (GRE word of the day, check.)
...Now, if only money were no object, I could begin in ernest! Nevertheless I shall continue to wait tables with a smile on my face, ever dreaming of the possibilities that await this (temporarily) detained wanderer.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Of Mind and Heart
About once a week (every week) for the last thirteen months I have drafted (and subsequently deleted) an e-mail to many a former college professor asking for advice on the subject of grad school. Now that I am an alumna rather than a student I feel at once more able to speak candidly with my former profs and yet less able to communicate at all, siting such lame reasons as distance and the desire not to waste their precious time. But the truth is I feel like I need their stamp of approval. It's as if I'm still in Brit Lit 207 and I cannot proceed with my first draft without having my enthymeme formally accepted. The only difference is that the essay in question is my educational future and I find the all important "because" clause--namely, the questionable reason(s) I possess for going to grad school--just as elusive now as ever it was before.
Thus, siting lack of courage and a complete inability to articulate myself effectively and succinctly through e-mail, I appeal to you, dear reader, for advice and whatever else you may like to add. The questions that I wish to put before those far wiser than myself are as follows:
Do you think I should go to grad school at all?
If not, what else do you think I should consider?
If so, why?
Where would you suggest?
Which programs do you think would be the most beneficial (Literature, Creative Writing, etc.)?
Where did you yourself go to grad school?
Was it a predominately positive experience?
Would you recommend an M.A., a PhD, or both?
How do you think graduate education has changed in the years following your years therein?
Do you think it is still worth the cost? (monetary, emotionally, and in terms of long-term commitment)
A lot of programs heavily advertise their staff--do you think professors are the most important factor in a programs value?
What do you believe are the three most important factors in selecting a graduate program?
And finally, how does one find the "diamond in the rough" schools (as, one could argue, Whitworth could be counted)?
I guess what I most want to know is this--where do you think I can find a place to belong in academia again? Whitworth was and is so unique, principally I suppose because of amazing importance places on individuals. Their education, their faith, their welfare. Not only did I receive a wonderful education, but I also felt a sincerity and authenticity among my fellow students as well as the staff. I found my peers to be intelligent, creative, supportive and kind individuals. Our professors too were brilliant in their own right, helpful beyond the call of duty, and extremely approachable. Classes where simulating, discussions broad and invigorating, and the dynamics of it all were positive throughout. It is my ambition to find such an affirmative environment once more.
Because as much as I love small M-town living, I feel the need for intellectual simulation like I feel the summer heat--it is a constant, almost nagging presence, intent upon taunting me until I crack under the pressure. But even more than that, I am in want of emotional connection. I am daily filled with the missing of my fellow English majors, my BISPer, my Pemberley ladies, my commune sisters, my Ivan-hoes, and the epicness of the Whitworth Writing Center. In the short period since my graduation I have realized how rare and remarkable it is that an institution can care so much for its students (and come to that, the students for one another) and still be successful. And while this realization makes me very grateful for my experience as well as hopeful that there are in fact similar institutions elsewhere, I do not know where they are nor how to find them. I would be very grateful for any assistance you might be able to provide that would uncover the mystery of graduate schools of the Mind and Heart variety.
Thus, siting lack of courage and a complete inability to articulate myself effectively and succinctly through e-mail, I appeal to you, dear reader, for advice and whatever else you may like to add. The questions that I wish to put before those far wiser than myself are as follows:
Do you think I should go to grad school at all?
If not, what else do you think I should consider?
If so, why?
Where would you suggest?
Which programs do you think would be the most beneficial (Literature, Creative Writing, etc.)?
Where did you yourself go to grad school?
Was it a predominately positive experience?
Would you recommend an M.A., a PhD, or both?
How do you think graduate education has changed in the years following your years therein?
Do you think it is still worth the cost? (monetary, emotionally, and in terms of long-term commitment)
A lot of programs heavily advertise their staff--do you think professors are the most important factor in a programs value?
What do you believe are the three most important factors in selecting a graduate program?
And finally, how does one find the "diamond in the rough" schools (as, one could argue, Whitworth could be counted)?
I guess what I most want to know is this--where do you think I can find a place to belong in academia again? Whitworth was and is so unique, principally I suppose because of amazing importance places on individuals. Their education, their faith, their welfare. Not only did I receive a wonderful education, but I also felt a sincerity and authenticity among my fellow students as well as the staff. I found my peers to be intelligent, creative, supportive and kind individuals. Our professors too were brilliant in their own right, helpful beyond the call of duty, and extremely approachable. Classes where simulating, discussions broad and invigorating, and the dynamics of it all were positive throughout. It is my ambition to find such an affirmative environment once more.
Because as much as I love small M-town living, I feel the need for intellectual simulation like I feel the summer heat--it is a constant, almost nagging presence, intent upon taunting me until I crack under the pressure. But even more than that, I am in want of emotional connection. I am daily filled with the missing of my fellow English majors, my BISPer, my Pemberley ladies, my commune sisters, my Ivan-hoes, and the epicness of the Whitworth Writing Center. In the short period since my graduation I have realized how rare and remarkable it is that an institution can care so much for its students (and come to that, the students for one another) and still be successful. And while this realization makes me very grateful for my experience as well as hopeful that there are in fact similar institutions elsewhere, I do not know where they are nor how to find them. I would be very grateful for any assistance you might be able to provide that would uncover the mystery of graduate schools of the Mind and Heart variety.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
On the Subject of Work and self-worth
As most of you know I am currently working as a waitress. This being the most recent in a string of completely unrelated occupations, all of which also have nothing whatsoever to do with my area of study whilst in college. Be that as it may, I have actually been very lucky with the jobs I've had in my life. I have had the opportunity to work under and alongside some of the most open, intelligent, and genuine people I know; I have learned a variety of skills that I am convinced could never have been acquired in a classroom, and, of course, I have made a little money here and there.
Now, I don't know about you, but for me--and I suspect for most people who live and (are trying to) work these days--I find that my perspective has shifted dramatically from wherever it might have been four or five years ago. When I graduated from high school I gave little thought to the grander idea of my occupational future. And even for the duration of my time in college I spent far more time worrying about one man's opinion of my ability to convey a literary analysis of Shakespeare from mind to MLA-formatted page than I ever did about such "trivialities" as polishing my resume, practicing interviewing strategies, or considering future career options for myself.
But is shortsightedness to blame for my current situation? Or it is perhaps a question of ambition? For, in point of fact, that is one virtue I never was very good at harnessing. I told myself that the people on the top of the heap were not the kind of people I wanted to be, and that things like power and prestige bring more trouble than they are worth anyway. And for the most part, I still believe this to be true. But I do wish I had flushed out at least a dash more zeal in the past, if only to get me from this bizarre "point a1" to wherever the hell it is I'm meant to be next, for while I may have ignored the whole "future," "job," "design you life NOW" memo whilst in school, I have but little choice to face it at the moment.
Although, in all fairness, there is very little wrong with my current location, be in geographically, emotionally, or even financially. I suppose it is simply that I am beginning to question things like "value" and "worth" and the elusive idea of "enough." I'll give you an example. Even before I graduated from Whitworth it was becoming clear that jobs were somewhat thin on the ground in almost every sector, and all the more so for students and recent grads with no experience. Thus, in my junior year, I resolved to find a summer job in Spokane, hoping for something a little better than the nothing I knew would be waiting for me back home. I applied for lots of jobs and ended up working for Whitworth's Grounds Department out of sheer luck, a job which I happily returned to the following summer. It was work in the most glorious and honest sense. I was forced to disobey my natural inclination to sleep in, due to early working hours. I spent eight hours a day out of doors, usually digging. I would come home from work dirty, dog-tired, and quite often elated. The execution of tasks and the satisfaction I felt upon their completion made the physical hardship well worth the effort. The knowledge that I had pleased others through the doing made it gratifying. (And driving around listening to music and the constant presence of purple spray paint didn't hurt either.) I guess my point is that, for a time, I felt I had a worth-while, measurable purpose that was manifested through my work. And, as such, I felt that I had earned the compensation I received in the doing.
From what I've heard and read and seen first hand, it is quite rare indeed to find a situation wherein fulfillment in one's work and satisfaction with one's income are compatible with one another. Just look at virtually any public school teacher in America today. Most are in the business because they love at least some aspect of what they do--let's be honest, who would do it if they didn't?--and yet nearly all work overtime for no additional pay. In my opinion, there is a job that does not produce the desired proportions of gratification to the amount of work put in, nor to the amount of compensation earned.
And trust me, I know I'm coming at this with rose-tinted glasses, but I still think someone aught to ask the question--Why the HELL do Americans (more so than most other Western nationalities) work themselves to death for longer days, lower median living wages, and some of the shortest vacation periods in the developed working world when in fact, "only 45 percent of Americans are satisfied with their work" in the first place?! An article published by CBS in January of 2010 stated that, according to the previous year's data, "Roughly 64 percent of workers under 25 say they were unhappy in their jobs." And this coming from the 89 percent who were lucky enough to be employed at the time!
I just don't get it. If we spend a third of our adult lives working, why is it that a great many work environments are so unpleasant? Am I so very naive and wrong to hope that my future occupation is one that is both personally gratifying and monetarily sufficient? Is it really so very impossible to achieve a true sense of self-worth from one's career and still pay the bills?
Because at the moment I am lacking in both departments. And while it is true that $4.00 an hour is better than nothing at all, and that working does gives me something to do with my day besides surfing the internet, I have come to believe that I am worth more than four dollars an hour. I believe that any job I have in the future should be a place of openness and honesty. The work I do should generate growth and edification. The hours committed and the quality of the craft should be reflected in the pay. Passion and commitment should be acknowledged and rewarded. Coworkers should show respect and courtesy to one another, seeking to build each other up and never to tear down. And, if possible, all work should result in the acquisition of a greater sense of self-worth than that which one had before the doing. Though, I suppose that if I received all of the above from a single occupation I'd have nothing left to strive for--and then where would I be?
Thus, the next step in my personal "I Could Never..." Project is to seek out the next occupation, however elusive, that will increase rather than decrease my levels of self-worth. The hunt is on.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Random Acts of Kindness
The other day one of my coworkers pulled me aside after we finished our daily check-out and mentioned that I seemed a little down and that if I ever wanted to talk, I shouldn't hesitate to call her. She smiled her ginuine smile at me (not the plastic, "hello my name is Cindy, how may I help you?" smile we use for 6 hours straight) and gave me her phone number. She promised not to judge me. She hugged me.
Now, I'll admit to having felt somewhat invisable of late. My friends are all in far-flung states or countries or continents, dutifully working full-time jobs or feverishly finishing finals or in completely opposite time zones. My family all have their own shtuff a-brewing. (And let me say that none of the above is bad. I am stoked for and inexpressibly proud of all the people in my life who are "out there" living--you ALL ROCK!) But all of the above factors do make it a little challenging to "talk" when I want to--or even when I don't. Cause the thing is, when Cindy randomly and generously reached out to me, I really was fine. I've been fine. I AM fine. But when I do have those dark moment, those hours or days or even weeks when I find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it and wondering what I should have done to alter my current curcumstances for the better, I do that thing where I sit in my car and think about who I might call. (More than likely I just end up at home blogging instead. Oye.)
I just feel so disconnected. Which is so far from the truth it's almost laughable. I have e-mail and Skype and facebook and a cell phone and snail mail for Christsake! And yet, with all of that, I look at the state of my relationships with you dear readers and I wonder--what can I do to let you know, as my kind coworker did, that I am HERE. I want to be avalible to you and I want you to know I care.
I guess I don't really have a point...other than that I've been watching to0 many clips from the "it gets better project" and "Vlogbrothers" in quick succession. I feel a restlessness in the form of a desire to help, to make a difference, and yet an equally large sense of inadeqacy and inexperience that seems to add up to "being found wanting."
So I shall do more research until I find a way to serve that seems right and proper to me. And until then I hope I can pay Random Acts of Kindness forward as much and as often as possible. I hope you'll do the same.
Now, I'll admit to having felt somewhat invisable of late. My friends are all in far-flung states or countries or continents, dutifully working full-time jobs or feverishly finishing finals or in completely opposite time zones. My family all have their own shtuff a-brewing. (And let me say that none of the above is bad. I am stoked for and inexpressibly proud of all the people in my life who are "out there" living--you ALL ROCK!) But all of the above factors do make it a little challenging to "talk" when I want to--or even when I don't. Cause the thing is, when Cindy randomly and generously reached out to me, I really was fine. I've been fine. I AM fine. But when I do have those dark moment, those hours or days or even weeks when I find myself wondering what the hell I'm doing and why I'm doing it and wondering what I should have done to alter my current curcumstances for the better, I do that thing where I sit in my car and think about who I might call. (More than likely I just end up at home blogging instead. Oye.)
I just feel so disconnected. Which is so far from the truth it's almost laughable. I have e-mail and Skype and facebook and a cell phone and snail mail for Christsake! And yet, with all of that, I look at the state of my relationships with you dear readers and I wonder--what can I do to let you know, as my kind coworker did, that I am HERE. I want to be avalible to you and I want you to know I care.
I guess I don't really have a point...other than that I've been watching to0 many clips from the "it gets better project" and "Vlogbrothers" in quick succession. I feel a restlessness in the form of a desire to help, to make a difference, and yet an equally large sense of inadeqacy and inexperience that seems to add up to "being found wanting."
So I shall do more research until I find a way to serve that seems right and proper to me. And until then I hope I can pay Random Acts of Kindness forward as much and as often as possible. I hope you'll do the same.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Project "I Could Never..."
I don't know about you, but I know for a fact that I can't count the number of times I've said the words "I could never [fill in the blank]." Now, normally, this would not bother me in the least, but recently I have become rather painfully aware of some of my more unattractive deficiencies, one of the most troublesome being that I am very VERY good at stopping myself from doing....well, a lot of things.
For example, my former housemate Kelsey is at this very moment teaching English in Korea. Elizabeth, another former sharer-of-ground-floor-bathroom-ness has uprooted herself for the purpose of planting three years worth of roots in Uganda. My fellow BISPer and Pemberely dweller Sam moved to a completely new city last year to attend Grad school--sight unseen. My favorite Texan does things like running marathons, enrolling in Boot Camp-like fitness programs for the sole purpose of bettering herself, and then, of course, there's the Law School thing. These are things I Could Never Do.
Or could I?
Somehow, (and, in all honesty, I really have no idea how) it came to be that even at the possibility-rich, option-filled, tender young age of I-don't-even-know-how-old I made a crucial decision in my life. I said "I can't." (More than likely the real phrase was "I won't," followed, accompanied, and/or preceded by some waterworks, I have no doubt.) And just like that, the course of my life began to change dramatically with every instance in which I spoke those words. (Okay, maybe not...but go with me here.) Because of course, on some occasions these words absolutely needed to be said (i.e.- Doing long division without a calculator, remembering all the words to "Stairway to Heaven" at the drop of a hat, or running around the dirt track of my elementary school as the same speed as Stevie Wiesner.)
But more often than not, what I really meant to say and did not have the heart or guts or sense of self-worth so to do was, quite simply, "I will not do X." And for me personally, that was usually because I was too scared or embarrassed to take action when passivity and indifference were, at the time, perfectly acceptable alternatives.
And look at everything I missed out on because of it. I never told my high school crush how much I liked him. I never tried out for a play at my school or community theatre or even took an acting class in college because I told myself I had no talent. I stopped writing poetry because I convinced myself that my work wasn't of any real value. I hid in my dorm-room for the vast majority of my time at Whitworth because I was afraid of meeting new people and being rejected and ignored all over again. I never applied to the Grad programs I loved because I am scared to death of the prospect of competitive academia. And I have no one to blame for it but me.
So, (finally,) I have decided to do something about it.
My dear readers, I present to you: Project "I Could Never..."
In reality it is nothing more than a visual reminder and digital incentive for me to challenge the 23 years of assumptions I have made about myself, starting with the goal of crossing off three things this summer that I previously thought I Could Never Do.
The first one will be manifested when I move my curser over the obnoxiously orange button on the bottom of this screen and press the "Publish Post" button. Because, you see, I always thought I Could Never Tell Anyone the things that I regret the most about the way I've lived my life, or the fragile and deeply personal hope I have about changing that.
I freely and heartily invite you to join me on my journey during what will hopefully become known as The Summer of Project "I Could Never." If you want to post your own "Nevers" in comments, facebook messages, e-mails, or even privately for no one but yourself, I encourage you to do so, and hope to keep you up to date about the progress of tackling my personal "Nevers" and hope you'll do the same.
Here's to strength:
May we gain more with each passing day;
To wisdom:
May it be like sugar in our tea (a little goes a long way;)
And to hope:
May it flourish like the summer sun that (we hope) has come to stay.
See, I told you my poetry needs work.
For example, my former housemate Kelsey is at this very moment teaching English in Korea. Elizabeth, another former sharer-of-ground-floor-bathroom-ness has uprooted herself for the purpose of planting three years worth of roots in Uganda. My fellow BISPer and Pemberely dweller Sam moved to a completely new city last year to attend Grad school--sight unseen. My favorite Texan does things like running marathons, enrolling in Boot Camp-like fitness programs for the sole purpose of bettering herself, and then, of course, there's the Law School thing. These are things I Could Never Do.
Or could I?
Somehow, (and, in all honesty, I really have no idea how) it came to be that even at the possibility-rich, option-filled, tender young age of I-don't-even-know-how-old I made a crucial decision in my life. I said "I can't." (More than likely the real phrase was "I won't," followed, accompanied, and/or preceded by some waterworks, I have no doubt.) And just like that, the course of my life began to change dramatically with every instance in which I spoke those words. (Okay, maybe not...but go with me here.) Because of course, on some occasions these words absolutely needed to be said (i.e.- Doing long division without a calculator, remembering all the words to "Stairway to Heaven" at the drop of a hat, or running around the dirt track of my elementary school as the same speed as Stevie Wiesner.)
But more often than not, what I really meant to say and did not have the heart or guts or sense of self-worth so to do was, quite simply, "I will not do X." And for me personally, that was usually because I was too scared or embarrassed to take action when passivity and indifference were, at the time, perfectly acceptable alternatives.
And look at everything I missed out on because of it. I never told my high school crush how much I liked him. I never tried out for a play at my school or community theatre or even took an acting class in college because I told myself I had no talent. I stopped writing poetry because I convinced myself that my work wasn't of any real value. I hid in my dorm-room for the vast majority of my time at Whitworth because I was afraid of meeting new people and being rejected and ignored all over again. I never applied to the Grad programs I loved because I am scared to death of the prospect of competitive academia. And I have no one to blame for it but me.
So, (finally,) I have decided to do something about it.
My dear readers, I present to you: Project "I Could Never..."
In reality it is nothing more than a visual reminder and digital incentive for me to challenge the 23 years of assumptions I have made about myself, starting with the goal of crossing off three things this summer that I previously thought I Could Never Do.
The first one will be manifested when I move my curser over the obnoxiously orange button on the bottom of this screen and press the "Publish Post" button. Because, you see, I always thought I Could Never Tell Anyone the things that I regret the most about the way I've lived my life, or the fragile and deeply personal hope I have about changing that.
I freely and heartily invite you to join me on my journey during what will hopefully become known as The Summer of Project "I Could Never." If you want to post your own "Nevers" in comments, facebook messages, e-mails, or even privately for no one but yourself, I encourage you to do so, and hope to keep you up to date about the progress of tackling my personal "Nevers" and hope you'll do the same.
Here's to strength:
May we gain more with each passing day;
To wisdom:
May it be like sugar in our tea (a little goes a long way;)
And to hope:
May it flourish like the summer sun that (we hope) has come to stay.
See, I told you my poetry needs work.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Role Reversal
Tonight is Prom night in my hometown. Tonight hundreds of teens are getting dressed up, going out, and...well, you can finish that sentence as you see fit. Five years ago I was among them. God, that feels like so long ago. And yet, I don't know that I've traveled very far from that place--that place in life where you dress up and pretend to be a grown-up, where you think that because you've had some education you are therefore a walking encyclopedia of knowledge; that place where you believe that adventure and excitement and opportunity are all freely available to you if only you will seize upon them, and where you have been told that things "can only get better from here."
And while I catch myself laughing at the naivety of the young people I see around me, sometimes I have to stop and wonder if I am so very different from those I am so quick to judge. Am I so very different in being painfully aware of my HERE-NESS, especially in contrast to the ELSEWHERE-NESS of most of my friends? Am I any less cocky for having four extra years of edification to call mine? And really, other than a few numbers difference on our ID, what is there to show the world that I am utterly unlike the 16-year-olds I served food to and cleaned up after this evening?
...I hear about people from high school and college who are getting big important "adult" jobs, having babies, going back to school, or moving across the country and I tell myself that I'm happy for them and not at all jealous. And 90% of the time I really do feel proud of those I love. I want them to be happy and successful in life and in love. But damn it, I want that for me too. I want to KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a master plan of perpetual journey tramping to be had by me, and that this game of "dress up" and "pretend" is more than just an exercise in preparation for some distant time to come. I don't want to wake up and realize that life, like some kind of horror film or inescapable dream, is merely an extension of high school.
Now wouldn't that be a nightmare.
And while I catch myself laughing at the naivety of the young people I see around me, sometimes I have to stop and wonder if I am so very different from those I am so quick to judge. Am I so very different in being painfully aware of my HERE-NESS, especially in contrast to the ELSEWHERE-NESS of most of my friends? Am I any less cocky for having four extra years of edification to call mine? And really, other than a few numbers difference on our ID, what is there to show the world that I am utterly unlike the 16-year-olds I served food to and cleaned up after this evening?
...I hear about people from high school and college who are getting big important "adult" jobs, having babies, going back to school, or moving across the country and I tell myself that I'm happy for them and not at all jealous. And 90% of the time I really do feel proud of those I love. I want them to be happy and successful in life and in love. But damn it, I want that for me too. I want to KNOW beyond a shadow of a doubt that there is a master plan of perpetual journey tramping to be had by me, and that this game of "dress up" and "pretend" is more than just an exercise in preparation for some distant time to come. I don't want to wake up and realize that life, like some kind of horror film or inescapable dream, is merely an extension of high school.
Now wouldn't that be a nightmare.
Friday, April 8, 2011
News!
...But, for the record, "the unknown" (at least in an exciting manner) will, for now, have to wait.
That is because I FINALLY got a job of a semi-permanent sort. I started waiting tables at a wonderful place here in my home town and I think I like it so far. It's a far cry from digging trenches or German math homework, but I 'll take it for the learning experience it will no doubt provide. One would hope. And the chance to make a little money. One most definitely hopes. Hurrah!
Also, in my fervor for a sense of direction as regards my future edification, I have come to realize that, as with most things in life, there really is not a "perfect time" to do anything. And so, the great and seemingly-never-ending search for M.A.s of Awesomeness continues, if perhaps more slowly than before, as I must now shift my focus to my new employment and only occasionally obsess over the pros and cons of GRE prep courses and/or grad school in general. Though CU Boulder is looking better and better these days...(um, can you say "cha-ching?")
But let's please do ignore me for a moment and direct our attention to some people who have actually managed to make some really hard yet awesomely exciting decisions recently:
Congratulations are most notably due to my dear friends Libby, Aubrey and Devin who recently decided to join the ranks of BU, WWU, and Vanderbilt Law, respectively. I tell you what, dear readers, these ladies are some of the most intelligent women I have ever met--and on top of that, they are kickassinyourfacecrazyawesome. The world of higher academia is lucky to have them. And so am I.
That is because I FINALLY got a job of a semi-permanent sort. I started waiting tables at a wonderful place here in my home town and I think I like it so far. It's a far cry from digging trenches or German math homework, but I 'll take it for the learning experience it will no doubt provide. One would hope. And the chance to make a little money. One most definitely hopes. Hurrah!
Also, in my fervor for a sense of direction as regards my future edification, I have come to realize that, as with most things in life, there really is not a "perfect time" to do anything. And so, the great and seemingly-never-ending search for M.A.s of Awesomeness continues, if perhaps more slowly than before, as I must now shift my focus to my new employment and only occasionally obsess over the pros and cons of GRE prep courses and/or grad school in general. Though CU Boulder is looking better and better these days...(um, can you say "cha-ching?")
But let's please do ignore me for a moment and direct our attention to some people who have actually managed to make some really hard yet awesomely exciting decisions recently:
Congratulations are most notably due to my dear friends Libby, Aubrey and Devin who recently decided to join the ranks of BU, WWU, and Vanderbilt Law, respectively. I tell you what, dear readers, these ladies are some of the most intelligent women I have ever met--and on top of that, they are kickassinyourfacecrazyawesome. The world of higher academia is lucky to have them. And so am I.
Oh, and, double-plus-bonus?
They are dog people : )
T.J., Gatsby, and Indy for the win!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
School and Life and Mountains
I've been thinking about school a lot lately. I miss the desks. I miss slamming my Norton down on the wood with zealousness and scribbling notes about Elizabethan politics as fast as I can. I miss sitting cross-legged on the tables upstairs in the classrooms in Westminster, reading and re-reading Lear's lines while a classmate cross-references them against a later text. I miss having heated yet beautifully friendly debates with my peers about everything from the merits of fictional characters to the impact of the 16th century Church on modern society. I miss sweating buckets over a presentation that took two people three days and information from four different libraries to complete. (Ok, so I don't miss the perspiration so much as the jubilation that followed.) And I miss the realization that one completed task meant one more mountain climbed, providing guidance and experience to drawn from in all the expeditions to come.
But at this moment I confess to feeling ill-equipped to surmount the next obstacle in my life. School, while indeed challenging, always had a trail, made clearly visible by the countless students who had gone before. Postgraduate life appears to be devoid of any such aids. Perhaps that is why I struggle with it so?
Maybe these new challenges are a kind of cosmic smoke-signal or footprint in the sand meant to lead me back where I began. After all, I feel quite at home in academia, so why not return to base camp and start the journey afresh from a vantage point I am familiar with?
But then I think, hell, maybe striking out on an as-yet un-blazed trail would be better for me! Somebody had to be the first to summit Everest, right? And perhaps, if I'm lucky, I will find illumination in the perspective brought by the view that few ever see, and from the journey that leads not back to the familiar, but onward, into the unknown...
But at this moment I confess to feeling ill-equipped to surmount the next obstacle in my life. School, while indeed challenging, always had a trail, made clearly visible by the countless students who had gone before. Postgraduate life appears to be devoid of any such aids. Perhaps that is why I struggle with it so?
Maybe these new challenges are a kind of cosmic smoke-signal or footprint in the sand meant to lead me back where I began. After all, I feel quite at home in academia, so why not return to base camp and start the journey afresh from a vantage point I am familiar with?
But then I think, hell, maybe striking out on an as-yet un-blazed trail would be better for me! Somebody had to be the first to summit Everest, right? And perhaps, if I'm lucky, I will find illumination in the perspective brought by the view that few ever see, and from the journey that leads not back to the familiar, but onward, into the unknown...
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
A Remarkable Read
"I remember how easily we used to talk, endlessly, making plans, deciding where we'd be in one and two and three years' time, and I don't remember mentioning this."
"We talked about other people, saying do you remember when, and how funny was that, and I wonder what happened to."
"I didn't know what to do, there was a feeling of time running out and a loss of momentum, of opportunities wasted."
"We spent our days on the front doorstep, circling job adverts with optimistic red felt-pens, trying to make plans, talking about traveling, or moving to London, or opening a cafe, each plan sounding definite until the next morning."
"A time of easy certainty had come to an end, and most of us had lost our nerve."
"...there is too much to know and I don't know where to begin but I want to try."
The above sounds frighteningly like the transcription of recent conversations I have had with friends and family.
In actually fact however, these quotations are taken from Jon McGregor's , If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. I picked it up because of the title while trolling for a good read in my native tongue in a train station bookstore in Zurich in November. It is a remarkable book. It reminds me of my life in the way that Hrabal does with Hanta. It's almost frightening how familiar are McGregor's characters and how beautiful his prose. Each section feed the anticipation for the next, yet it is in truth more poetic than prosaic, so masterfully understated as to keep the audience guessing until the very end.
In a manner borrowed from the great Vic Bobb, I give this novel a grade of A.
I hope you read and I hope you enjoy, for at times when I tried everything, "I blocked my ears with the bedcovers, I breathed slowly and deeply, I counted to a hundred, I counted to five hundred. I gave up eventually, and put the light on, and sat up in bed to read," McGregor's work was close at hand.
But now that I've finished it, what shall I read next, dear readers?
"We talked about other people, saying do you remember when, and how funny was that, and I wonder what happened to."
"I didn't know what to do, there was a feeling of time running out and a loss of momentum, of opportunities wasted."
"We spent our days on the front doorstep, circling job adverts with optimistic red felt-pens, trying to make plans, talking about traveling, or moving to London, or opening a cafe, each plan sounding definite until the next morning."
"A time of easy certainty had come to an end, and most of us had lost our nerve."
"...there is too much to know and I don't know where to begin but I want to try."
The above sounds frighteningly like the transcription of recent conversations I have had with friends and family.
In actually fact however, these quotations are taken from Jon McGregor's , If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. I picked it up because of the title while trolling for a good read in my native tongue in a train station bookstore in Zurich in November. It is a remarkable book. It reminds me of my life in the way that Hrabal does with Hanta. It's almost frightening how familiar are McGregor's characters and how beautiful his prose. Each section feed the anticipation for the next, yet it is in truth more poetic than prosaic, so masterfully understated as to keep the audience guessing until the very end.
In a manner borrowed from the great Vic Bobb, I give this novel a grade of A.
I hope you read and I hope you enjoy, for at times when I tried everything, "I blocked my ears with the bedcovers, I breathed slowly and deeply, I counted to a hundred, I counted to five hundred. I gave up eventually, and put the light on, and sat up in bed to read," McGregor's work was close at hand.
But now that I've finished it, what shall I read next, dear readers?
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Five W's and the All Important H
There is little doubt in my mind dear reader that you, like every good gumshoe or sixth grade essayist before you, know all too well the importance of a collection of six, simple, all too common English words.
Alas, I myself never knew that these seemingly harmless terms, so vital to every good English major's lexicon, would one day return to haunt my dreams and disturb my waking hours with such subtle yet crippling force.
They are, of course:
Who
What
When
Where
Why
(and)
How
as in:
Who are you?
What are you doing? (with your life/ with your degree/ with your weekend, etc.)
When are you going to grow up and get a life worthy or respect ( and a paycheck?)
Where do you plan to be in six months/ five years/ ten years?
Why are you doing--or not doing, as the case may be--what you should/ were told/ feel you ought?
And of course, the all important...
How are you going to accomplish _______/ pay for _______/ get to _______ achieve ________?
Answer: I Have No Idea.
Good Lord.
How I miss the good old not so distant days when the hardest questions I had to face were:
Who do you admire most?
What good books have you read lately?
When is lunch?
Where did I put my keys?
Why did he buy 16 cases of Easy-Mac?
How did she get on the roof?!
Ah, yes. Simpler times! Who has stolen you from me? What has caused you to abandon my company? When shall I ever see you again? Where have you gone? Why have you forsaken me? How shall I ever survive in this new and infinitely more complicated age in which I find myself?
Oh...I wish I knew!
They are, of course:
Who
What
When
Where
Why
(and)
How
as in:
Who are you?
What are you doing? (with your life/ with your degree/ with your weekend, etc.)
When are you going to grow up and get a life worthy or respect ( and a paycheck?)
Where do you plan to be in six months/ five years/ ten years?
Why are you doing--or not doing, as the case may be--what you should/ were told/ feel you ought?
And of course, the all important...
How are you going to accomplish _______/ pay for _______/ get to _______ achieve ________?
Answer: I Have No Idea.
Good Lord.
How I miss the good old not so distant days when the hardest questions I had to face were:
Who do you admire most?
What good books have you read lately?
When is lunch?
Where did I put my keys?
Why did he buy 16 cases of Easy-Mac?
How did she get on the roof?!
Ah, yes. Simpler times! Who has stolen you from me? What has caused you to abandon my company? When shall I ever see you again? Where have you gone? Why have you forsaken me? How shall I ever survive in this new and infinitely more complicated age in which I find myself?
Oh...I wish I knew!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
I Wish I Knew
I find myself saying the above rather a lot lately.
Sometimes it is in answer to the kindly-meant yet oh-so-annoying queries about what my plans are for the future. All the other times it is one of many not-so-helpful phrases that chase each other around the inside of my head until I make the probably rash decision to blog about it. Go me.
I don't have a plan anymore.
I was a student. (Alas, poor Yorick!)
I was a nanny. (That was great, but, again...done for now.)
I try to work. (That doesn't get much farther than the kind-hearted family friends who pity me and thus allow me to watch their dogs for long weekends.)
I read a lot.
I research schools in half a dozen fields until I don't even know why I looked them up in the first place.
I job hunt on every website I've ever heard of until my eyes feel like they'll fall out, only to realize that I am unqualified for 90% of them. All the others would require me to move to Kansas.
(Insert appropriately descriptive yet forceful expletive of your choice here)
Thus, in a effort to distract myself from life for a while and perhaps even gain some perspective on my current situation I did what any self-respecting youth of my generation would do: I popped some popcorn and settled in to watch a classic of the John Hughes persuasion, St. Elmo's Fire, one of my personal favorites in any case and all the more now that I can personally identify with its characters (god help me.) Oh, and if you haven't seen it, shame on you and before you read any further I insist you go rent it and watch it for yourself. If you have a soul and a healthy apprciation for all things 80s I know you'll love it.
During the course of the film a group of post-collegiate friends attempt to navigate the rocky road of adult life and at a key moment near the end Rob Lowe's character describes St. Elmo's Fire as "flashes of light that appear in dark skies out of nowhere. Sailors would guide entire journeys by it, but the joke was on them. There was no fire. There wasn't even a St. Elmo...They made it up because they thought they needed it to keep them going when times got tough."
Well, I won't lie. I wouldn't mind a little flash of St. Elmo's Fire in my life right about now. For like the character of Jules, I too confess to feeling oh so tired. I never thought I'd be so tired at 23. It almost makes me sad, knowing that never again in my life am I going to have the "opportunities" that I do right now. I simple wish they would look a little less like dead ends with caution tape and signs that say DANGER and a little more like friendly fuzzy woodland creatures who have come to help me clean up my life.
Therefore...
Now Hiring:
Life Coach (aka Fairy Godmother, aka Talking Tree, aka Giver of Guidance and Jell-O Shots, aka Rob Lowe circa 1985)
Duties:
(1) Using divine oracle or any other means necessary, provide sound advise and sage counsel in the matter(s) of one's occupational future, geographic settlement options, edification and directional determination thereof, financial stabilization, etc.
(2) Stick around long enough to witness the fruition of one or more of the above.
(3) If applicable, kick one's ass to achieve appropriate outcome.
Qualifications:
(1) Must embrace insomnia, sarcasm, BBC movie marathons, Bob Dylan, and the potential consumption of copious amounts of mint chip ice cream.
(2) Must have experience with procrastination (documentation of successful conquest preferred).
(3) Must have read (and loved to the point of impropriety) Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud A Solitude.
Compensation:
Ah, there's the rub.
Applications are now being accepted.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sometimes it is in answer to the kindly-meant yet oh-so-annoying queries about what my plans are for the future. All the other times it is one of many not-so-helpful phrases that chase each other around the inside of my head until I make the probably rash decision to blog about it. Go me.
I don't have a plan anymore.
I was a student. (Alas, poor Yorick!)
I was a nanny. (That was great, but, again...done for now.)
I try to work. (That doesn't get much farther than the kind-hearted family friends who pity me and thus allow me to watch their dogs for long weekends.)
I read a lot.
I research schools in half a dozen fields until I don't even know why I looked them up in the first place.
I job hunt on every website I've ever heard of until my eyes feel like they'll fall out, only to realize that I am unqualified for 90% of them. All the others would require me to move to Kansas.
(Insert appropriately descriptive yet forceful expletive of your choice here)
Thus, in a effort to distract myself from life for a while and perhaps even gain some perspective on my current situation I did what any self-respecting youth of my generation would do: I popped some popcorn and settled in to watch a classic of the John Hughes persuasion, St. Elmo's Fire, one of my personal favorites in any case and all the more now that I can personally identify with its characters (god help me.) Oh, and if you haven't seen it, shame on you and before you read any further I insist you go rent it and watch it for yourself. If you have a soul and a healthy apprciation for all things 80s I know you'll love it.
During the course of the film a group of post-collegiate friends attempt to navigate the rocky road of adult life and at a key moment near the end Rob Lowe's character describes St. Elmo's Fire as "flashes of light that appear in dark skies out of nowhere. Sailors would guide entire journeys by it, but the joke was on them. There was no fire. There wasn't even a St. Elmo...They made it up because they thought they needed it to keep them going when times got tough."
Well, I won't lie. I wouldn't mind a little flash of St. Elmo's Fire in my life right about now. For like the character of Jules, I too confess to feeling oh so tired. I never thought I'd be so tired at 23. It almost makes me sad, knowing that never again in my life am I going to have the "opportunities" that I do right now. I simple wish they would look a little less like dead ends with caution tape and signs that say DANGER and a little more like friendly fuzzy woodland creatures who have come to help me clean up my life.
Therefore...
Now Hiring:
Life Coach (aka Fairy Godmother, aka Talking Tree, aka Giver of Guidance and Jell-O Shots, aka Rob Lowe circa 1985)
Duties:
(1) Using divine oracle or any other means necessary, provide sound advise and sage counsel in the matter(s) of one's occupational future, geographic settlement options, edification and directional determination thereof, financial stabilization, etc.
(2) Stick around long enough to witness the fruition of one or more of the above.
(3) If applicable, kick one's ass to achieve appropriate outcome.
Qualifications:
(1) Must embrace insomnia, sarcasm, BBC movie marathons, Bob Dylan, and the potential consumption of copious amounts of mint chip ice cream.
(2) Must have experience with procrastination (documentation of successful conquest preferred).
(3) Must have read (and loved to the point of impropriety) Bohumil Hrabal's Too Loud A Solitude.
Compensation:
Ah, there's the rub.
Applications are now being accepted.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
There and Back Again
"Well, I'm back." - Samwise Gamgee
I recently returned from my latest adventure. I left my temporary post as nanny and cook and driver and housekeeper and teacher and confidant and humble guest of the family Bruesch and made my way home again. I find myself, not unlike Tolkien's gardening Hobbit in many ways, to be changed because of it, yet somewhat unable to articulate just what happened in full detail to each who inquire.
In many ways I am glade to be done as I can now enjoy a few creature comforts that were unavailable to me for a while:
- Liberal amounts of confidence and courage, preferably in equal measure. (Not that there is something intrinsically confident about Europeans...oh, wait... Regardless, I wish merely to provide myself with strength enough to endure whatever lies ahead, for like Tolkein's brave little gardener, I have no aspirations of grandeur save those of a job well done. Now I just have to find said job...)
Overall though, this past year has provided me with a great many adventures and hilarious moments. It is therefore my sincere hope that the coming year brings with it no less than the year before. And to all of you, my dear readers, I thank you for the part you have played in those momentous adventures. As Mr. Frodo would say, "I am glad to be with you."
I recently returned from my latest adventure. I left my temporary post as nanny and cook and driver and housekeeper and teacher and confidant and humble guest of the family Bruesch and made my way home again. I find myself, not unlike Tolkien's gardening Hobbit in many ways, to be changed because of it, yet somewhat unable to articulate just what happened in full detail to each who inquire.
In many ways I am glade to be done as I can now enjoy a few creature comforts that were unavailable to me for a while:
- I no longer have to ration my q-tips, my body wash, or strategically plan when and how to do my laundry.
- I have the constant company and comfort of my cat, as well as the family dog.
- I have unending electricity with which to charge my computer and phone and ipod...all at the same time.
- I have unlimited access to Starbucks Chai tea and Subwich subs.
- I can read menus again and need not consult Google Translate before trying to use a cookbook or packaged instructions!
While I reconnect will all of these wonderful luxuries I also want to be mindful of the benefits of my experience and those of "a simple life" in particular. I know I can't recreate the little life I had in Malix, but at the very least I intend to embrace the advent of the new year and thus send this, my "resolution," out into the great wide web: It is my hope that I will be able to identify and incorporate those aspects of European living that appeal to me into this, my American Life. Specifically I intend to focus on the following:
- A little more order. (No, that's not it...not exactly...I want rhythm. I want a slower feel to my life than that which I knew in college and in all the years before or since.)
- A little less fear. (I don't know if it's just me, but it seems that as Americans we are given far more than our fair dose of suspicion and caution and prejudice and just-enough-knowledge-to-scare-rather-than-inform us. I feel that this fear creates division between those who could learn a lot from and teach a lot to one another, if only we had the patients so to do.)
- A splash of productivity. (Not too much, for fear of being consumed with the desire for money-making or application-sending or blog-writing. Rather, I desire a pursuit that will render me of use to myself and to my fellow man.)
-A touch of "challenge." (Maybe not the kind that requires 72-hour cram sessions or getting ill-tempered children to finish their math homework, but part of me nevertheless desires to have the element of puzzles to be solved and tasks to be completed back in my life.)
-A touch of "challenge." (Maybe not the kind that requires 72-hour cram sessions or getting ill-tempered children to finish their math homework, but part of me nevertheless desires to have the element of puzzles to be solved and tasks to be completed back in my life.)
- Liberal amounts of confidence and courage, preferably in equal measure. (Not that there is something intrinsically confident about Europeans...oh, wait... Regardless, I wish merely to provide myself with strength enough to endure whatever lies ahead, for like Tolkein's brave little gardener, I have no aspirations of grandeur save those of a job well done. Now I just have to find said job...)
Overall though, this past year has provided me with a great many adventures and hilarious moments. It is therefore my sincere hope that the coming year brings with it no less than the year before. And to all of you, my dear readers, I thank you for the part you have played in those momentous adventures. As Mr. Frodo would say, "I am glad to be with you."
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