This Is What Gets Let In

2010-05-16T09:36:00.002-04:00

The Ring
Since last time I wrote, I've acquired a ring. As a symbol of my engagement, it's very satisfying, but as a concrete object in my life, it is miraculous. I never desired a ring, or thought much about having one. Now that I do, I find that the shininess, the sparkliness, the circularity, the very weight of it on my finger, all have a transformative effect on my vision of myself. The ring reminds me to enjoy the present moment. The ring reminds me to appreciate what is happening right now. The ring reminds me to see myself, and my beloved, as astonishing, surprising, and beautiful.

How I Got The Ring
Keith and I went for a walk, as we often do on a hospitable Saturday morning. We walked on a familiar circuit, down to Coolidge Corner via the back route, dodging hedges and recycling bins. We stopped at Peet's for coffee, the library to return books, Trader Joe's to buy Buffalo Chicken Meatballs. We discussed the usual range of topics - my (multiple, unsuccessful) attempts to call my mom on her birthday the day before, Keith's breakthroughs and setbacks in his paper on the Modified Prequential Bayes Approach to Gaussian Mixture Order Estimation, an article I'd read on the controversy surrounding psychology and pharmaceuticals, whether or not to see Greenberg in the theater, our favorite parts of the latest 30 Rock episode, and a long, mutual rant on the misguided walking habits of local pedestrians. The conversation carried us through Coolidge Corner, up Beacon to 7-11, through the purchase of a Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr Pepper Big Gulp, into the checkout line at Star Market, and all the way up to the reservoir. The walk was supposed to veer back to my apartment after Star Market, as I had purchased milk, but we continued up to the reservoir on Keith's suggestion. As we approached, I stopped at a park information billboard to see if there were any restrooms close by. I noticed an announcement for a nature walk that sounded interesting, and Keith and I tried to figure out where it would take place. We chatted on, up the dirt path to the reservoir, rounding the bend onto the main graveled path. We walked about fifty yards until we came to the first green bench. We sat down and I continued my campaign to get Keith to the movie theater. He stood up and stretched, blocking the sun and saying "today might be your lucky day". I looked up at him and smirked. He then dropped down on one knee and began speaking. I didn't hear anything of what he was saying as I laughed out of shock and fear and asked him what he was doing. He took a box out of his pocket and opened it to show me a diamond ring. I was afraid to speak, not knowing which words might fly out of my mouth. He and I got the ring onto the correct finger and I laughed more and felt like my lips and cheeks would stretch off of my face from smiling. I said yes and we hugged and kissed and sat together on the bench in the sun, as the light reflected off of the ring onto our grinning faces.

2010-03-03T19:56:00.002-05:00

It's been over a year since I last wrote. I miss my voice. I liked the idea of myself as a blogger, but the reality of it was disappointing. I can never quite figure out why I stop doing things, or don't continue things I once enjoyed. When they excavate my brain in 2 million years, there will be an interesting geologic story to be told. My changes and reasons seem to subscribe to a vast scale of time. I think about how much I enjoy reading my friends' blogs and peeking into the psyches of strangers through their blogs and I wish I could be part of the inter-blast. I am, at heart or by training, a lurker. I would like to train to be a contributor.

I am listening to a fantastic album - Country Club by John Doe and the Sadies. It makes me want to write, to use my voice to share feeling and cause feeling. Ooh, shivers, that album just led seamlessly into Folsom Prison Blues. Sometimes iTunes is a little creepy in its perfection. Country Club is about John Doe's love and appreciation of country songwriting and music, so hearing Johnny Cash right after him feels like the best illustration.

I have been trying to think about how to contribute. Am I incubating, preparing, germinating? Or is this cowardice, something that needs to be weaned, served, nipped in the bud? I try to have respect for my pace. I alternate between faith and impatience. Can those go together or do they require alternation? I think I can hold both at once - faith in my imaginative life, mixed with impatience at the pace of its manifestation.

Just listened to the wonderful part of Busted when Johnny laughs. "No laughing during the song. Don't you know this is being recorded?"

2009-01-20T20:56:00.002-05:00

A few thoughts on the Inauguration:
1. Contrary to my assumptions, most people in my office stopped working, turned up the TV and gathered 'round to watch the Inauguration. McCain supporters continued manning the phones, receiving deliveries, and discussing freight LOUDLY, while the rest of us sat, in various states of engrossment, and listened to the proceedings. Obama did not disappoint, though his consistent eloquence has gotten to be one of those things I take for granted, and therefore prize less. Thank goodness for the CBS editors, who panned to GW at just the right moments, reminding me why eloquence and consistency must be prized!
2. I was most touched by the performance of Simple Gifts, which reminded me of the majesty of Aaron Copeland and brought home the mythic nature of the occasion.
3. Everyone on Facebook seems to love the Pete Seeger/Bruce Springsteen rendition of This Land Is Your Land the most of all the pre-Inaugural performances. However, I gotta give a shout-out for U2 and Pride (In the Name of Love). That song even gives me shivers on non-momentous occasions.
4. Stevie Wonder singing and playing keys on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial just makes sense. It's like the place was built for him. I think Obama might need to footnote Higher Ground in his inaugural speech transcript.
5. Many thanks to several people who posted Martin Luther King Jr.'s April 4, 1967 Speech on Vietnam. It's not only still relevant, but still powerful and awe-inspiring.

All in all, a thrilling few days of media, pageantry, tradition, path-breaking, pomp, and true circumstance. I'm looking forward to the next 4 years.

2008-11-26T17:18:00.002-05:00

I got out of work early today, so I started cooking. I made carrot soup in the same spirit of naive optimism with which I do so many things. I knew the soup was a puree, but persisted in thinking that a food processor/blender/mixer/puree-er would appear by the time I needed it, in about Step 5 of the recipe. It never showed; go figure. I mashed and mashed, but the soup is about as close to a puree as LA is to San Francisco. Not close and not alike either. I put it on the back of the stove and moved on to the next recipe. Viva la optimisma!

I've acquired a file cabinet, something I've wanted for a while but have no place to put. A lovely and lively woman whom I met while living with H died last week and left an apartment full of belongings. Her children arrived from Scotland and California to empty the apartment and H let me know there were various items available. The whole thing might have been a touch too macabre, even for my acquisitive sensibilities, if it hadn't been for the marvelous spirit and generosity of the family. The daughter I met was incredibly charming and put me at ease right away. I took several things after that first visit and went back today to pick up the file cabinet. The son was there this time and brought the cabinet down to my car. Inside the top drawer was a teapot and several tea-making implements that his sister had packed for me. It seems she had remembered all the little details of our conversation. I was very touched.

In any case, despite the lovely interactions that brought the file cabinet to me, the fact remains that I have no place to put it. My apartment is still a studio, though I seem to be bent on acquiring furniture and accessories for a one-to-two bedroom space. I may have to start stacking soon!

It's been a stressful 3-day week, which I guess is to be expected. The senior AP person who normally answers all my questions and handles the more complex aspects of the job went to Ireland this week, so I've been treading water more frantically than usual. My brain and body hurt from being tested so often. Although it is "okay" to make mistakes, it often feels much worse than "okay". I carry my weary body home at the end of the day and try to soothe the strains, both muscular and cerebral, that have accumulated at work. I hope the long weekend will give me time to regroup.

2008-11-14T14:13:00.002-05:00

Man, I still hate my template. But then I never blog, so who am I to complain? I think a lot might have changed since I last wrote, but summarizing is beyond my attention span at this point. Today I am suffering (mildly) from a headache induced by grey weather and (I am convinced) inadequate office air flow. It's a typical friday here at the Bird. [My company is named after a bird of prey, which I will not name in this forum.] The coworker who sits closest to me has left for the day, so I feel free to put on Pandora and turn it up to almost level 3 in volume. I made a new station today - The Sea and Cake Radio - and Talking Heads' beautiful This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody) is making my afternoon brighter. Today has been a slow day: a blessing for my dysfunctional brain but, by definition, not the best way to make time go fast. I am looking forward to a quiet evening at home, perhaps doing laundry, perhaps watching a movie, perhaps just watching the umpteenth episode of The Office on DVD, with commentary. I just got finished watching the first season of Arrested Development - the first time I'd seen the whole thing in order, all the way through. I always thought it was uncommonly funny, but now I am really floored by its brilliance. Such a perfection of elements present all at once: writing, acting, directing, chemistry. I am sad that it ended after only three seasons, but only in the purely childlike, selfish way of one who wants Christmas EVERY DAY, even though that would sour the whole effect of such a holiday. I am of the cliched (not to mention Puritanical) school that tends to think that too much of a good thing makes it less good. Also, I have some vague idea that it is better to have produced a small amount of brilliant art than a large amount of average or mediocre fare. I can't think of a show that was consistently good for more than 3 years, anyway. (The Simpsons probably comes the closest, but just try to imagine that achievement with live actors. Cheers? Nope. The Cosby Show? Nope. Seinfeld? No way.) As I write this, I feel like a crotchety old person. But short-lived brilliance does not make me feel crotchety or cynical or sad. It makes me wonder what kinds of brilliance might lie inside me and those I love. It makes me want to engage with the world in the hope of inducing such brilliance in myself and others. It is perhaps slightly easier to feel this sort of impulse in the wake of the recent election. The long, weary trudge of the soul through the Bush years has yielded to a more sprightly stride. I keep the New Yorker cover depicting a long red tunnel with a blue light at the end next to my bed. It reminds me to dream at night.

2008-08-26T19:08:00.005-04:00

I changed my blog without saving my old template. I had a new look that I hated, didn't know how to change it back, and thus completely gave up on my blog. I would like to resurrect it, but I think a peach-tinted background is not the way to do it. Oh heck with it, I'll just write.

On Saturday, I will be moving into my very own apartment. This will be the first time I've lived alone since a brief stint in 2003. During all of the intervening time, living alone has been an insistent fantasy. I have now structured my life almost completely around that fantasy. I certainly took my job so I could make enough money to live alone.

I had a brief but stressful housing search which delivered me, at the last minute, into this beautiful and perfect little studio on Commonwealth Ave. (to be continued...I hope)

2008-07-01T19:26:00.003-04:00

Today I got excited by the thought of listening to Sky Blue Sky after work. It's been a while since I thought about an album that way - as a certain source of pleasure, like ice cream or cool water I still enjoy music very much, but my iPod has changed my relationship to it. I crave songs now, but rarely albums. This has become a cliche, and I lament my own participation in the fragmentation of individual and collective life, but I still love my iPod :) In any case, Sky Blue Sky managed to slip past my fragmented attention span and insinuate itself in my unconscious life. Perhaps because I fell asleep listening to it last night...

Following a link to Janis Joplin singing Summertime, I found another link, to Peter Gabriel's version. Also very satisfying, though not nearly as raw as Janis. (Has anyone ever been that raw?)

The daily thunderstorm has passed us by without delivering. For a while, we were getting an intense burst of thunder, lightning, and heavy rain every afternoon. It would roll in quickly, last about 20 minutes, then clear up, leaving the air an iota less humid. I miss it!

2008-06-22T20:27:00.002-04:00

This week will be my third week of working full-time. I'm already fatigued :) It feels like an exercise I haven't performed in a long time, and which my muscles have forgotten how to do. I'm hoping I'll feel more in-shape soon. I do get a kick out of the rituals of the work week: the ratio of talk:action that increases as the week goes on, the little snacks/breaks/walks to the bathroom that break up the day, the many crises (both real and imagined/invented) that add spice to the day. A big crisis is looming - the switch to a new accounting and shipping system in August - and the fear and panic about all of its possible forms both invigorates and paralyzes the whole office.

Ironic post-modern moment of the week: I got pulled in to act as clerical and administrative aide for a couple of new green initiatives, one of which involves pricing and researching the switch to recycled copier/printer paper. My coworker, who normally orders the office supplies, was excited about this, and assured me that recycled paper costs less than what we get now. I was pretty sure that it costs more, a fact which was confirmed later in the week. However, I realized that the foundation for my "knowledge" on the subject was a line from "The Office" in which Jim comments that he will be offering recycled paper to his biggest client, for 1 cent more per sheet. Ah, expertise. How easy you are to come by!

The weekend was a melange of small pleasures. I took the train down to Middleboro/Lakeville to meet Keith on Friday afternoon. I was reading a satisfying entry in the "chick lit" genre, and had iced tea, brie, and grapes to graze upon. Seeing Keith was wonderful - that first glimpse upon debarking is really thrilling. So is the coy flirtation we practice during the first several minutes of conversation. There was lots to say, so the drive went quickly. We knew exactly what to get for dinner, and enjoyed Keith's signature enchiladas. Saturday morning was pleasantly lazy, then we geared up for the Russia-Netherlands match of Euro2008. It was a thrilling game, not least because Keith was moved to alternate bouts of joy and agony by the play. Russia won, devastating Keith and secretly thrilling me, the devious underdog-supporter. That night, we watched a great little independent romantic comedy called "Wristcutters: A Love Story", with several nice performances and a great, gravelly turn by Tom Waits as an undercover messiah/saboteur. We also had some good conversations, Keith was finally able to explain his thesis topic in a way I could comprehend, and we made out like bandits at Kohl's. All in all, a good weekend, albeit one that sped by much too swiftly.

2008-06-04T18:49:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about self-presentation. I noticed (not for the first time) that I tend to represent myself in a relentlessly negative light. This comes up when I get together with friends I haven't seen in a while, when people ask me about my job/goals/plans for the future, and when I'm figuring out what descriptors to use on social and career networking sites (eg Facebook, LinkedIn, etc). I've been spending time on LinkedIn lately and it really triggers those negative feelings. At first, I didn't want to invite anyone to be in my network, for fear that I would "poison" them with my lack of ambition and chronic temp work. Of course, my friends and acquaintances were not nearly as worried about this as I was (or at least were kind enough not to say so). As I added more connections, I began to look at their job/career/profession titles, and those in their extended networks. At first, this reinforced my feelings of inferiority - I seemed to be the only one who didn't have a "real" title, and, by extension, a "real" job. However, upon closer examination, I realized that the difference was not in the occupation, but in the NAMING. Most people choose to name themselves after the best-case scenario: the job they hope/want/expect to have. This creates the illusion of success, or the state of already-having-achieved whatever it is. This revelation must seem old-hat to anyone who has studied business, met with a career counselor, or read any kind of self-help book written in the last 100 years, but it is exciting news to me! Yet it is also a reminder that my limitations are self-imposed, and thus exceedingly hard to remove. When I try to imagine an ideal future, I stall completely and become transfixed by my own inertia. Friendly, well-meaning attempts to jostle me into dreaming or fantasizing or brainstorming possibilities only make me feel more stubbornly stuck in the same old rut. I don't want help, because part of the whole myth of adulthood that is so stultifying in the first place is that I should be able to do this myself.

I think that a small improvement might be possible: to find a way to present myself and my current life in a kinder, more positive light. The fear is that people are judging me negatively, so I should point out all my faults so they know I'm at least not ignorant and unaware, as well as being unsuccessful, lazy, ineffective, et al. But perhaps I could allow other people's judgments to come from them, without prejudicing them aforethought. There is always the possibility that if I felt good about myself, others would follow suit. Imagine that.

2008-04-25T19:17:00.002-04:00

The flipside of my previous entry is my angry reaction to the Red Sox game-day crowds. It feels like barely a minute has passed since the World Series, with all its attendant excitement, massive crowding, and delays. Now here we are again. Wednesday I emerged into Park Street station to face hordes of Sox fans, talking loudly about which train to catch, pushing and jostling to get on the trains, reeking of alcohol, and laughing derisively at people with dark skin or native dress. I missed my first train because of the crowding, figuring I'd grab the next, less crowded train. Dream on! By the time the next train came, a new crowd had formed, to merge with the crowd already packing the train. I got in line to get on and 5 or 6 groups of fans pushed in front of me. Cursing and scowling fiercely, I got out of line and moved down the platform, deciding to get on the D train and transfer at Kenmore. By this point, I was completely stressed and flustered, glowering at everyone and forgetting my manners. I put on my iPod, stopped pretending to read the New Yorker, and let Ryan Adams soothe my ruffled nerves. The D Train was fine, the transfer was smooth (especially interesting to watch the sea of fans trying to disembark, disgorge, and climb the stairs at Kenmore), and I arrived home a mere 2 hours after I left work. Play ball!

[Note: as you can see, this incident went a long way towards making me forget the fact that I like the Red Sox and often enjoy the fervor and fanaticism of their fans. I'm hoping those feelings will return, at least in between public transportation battles.]

2008-04-21T15:18:00.003-04:00

The straggly tail of runners moving down Beacon Street across from my window represent the end of the 112th Boston Marathon. This is my first up-close experience of a marathon. I spent about an hour down on the sidelines, as waves of emotion washed over me. I was surprised by how touching and intense it is, even as a spectator.

It took me a long time to get home today, as crowds of people jostled each other to pack into any Green Line train, trying to get near Copley Square and the marathon finish line. After fruitlessly trying to board 3 C trains in a row, I hopped the D train and transferred at Kenmore, after the hoards had reached their destination. Coming up out of the tunnel at St. Mary's, I could hear the roar of the crowd, then saw the runners, a sea of them, moving in the bright sunshine. Tears sprang to my eyes. The combination of the grit and almost fanciful optimism of the runners and the excitement and supportiveness of the crowd packed quite a punch. This was about 1pm, after the fastest had already crossed the finish line.

Brookline witnesses such a crucial point in the race, as the runners enter the final few miles, but are just short of the finish. It was amazing to see Beacon Street transformed into a sea of runners and spectators. As the train made a slight incline, I could see several blocks ahead and the sea turned into a long river of runners. The day is perfect: sunny but not too warm. Plenty of people are grilling and boozing, taking the opportunity to party. Others are waiting for a particular runner and will jump up out of their seats and start running alongside their loved one, offering encouragement and liquids. Others are trying to cross the path of the marathon, dodging in between runners as they go by. The spectacle of it is entertaining, but the sheer emotion of it is overwhelming. I sat silently and wondered why I didn't cheer, wondered what ideas of focus, commitment, and hope I can take from this, wondered at the beauty of such occasions.

2008-04-16T19:11:00.002-04:00

I really hate the bullet point in my last entry, but removing it now seems like cheating.

It seems like I am going to accept a full-time position at the company for which I am currently temping. This is either part of my comfortable, steady segue into mediocrity, or a smart way to bide my time until I can see more of the face of my true desires. It is probably a bit of both - like the road less traveled, it will become part of my mythology, changing its meaning as I tell about it at different points in my life.

Last weekend I returned to the Pioneer Valley for the first time since last summer. It was good to be there because I was seeing friends who are important to me and make me feel loved and accepted. Otherwise, the area instills a low-grade panic in me. I have come a long way from there to this current stagnation. I don't want to go back, but I want to feel the way I felt when I was there. I flirted with the idea of moving into the apartment upstairs from my friends, getting a job at one of hte colleges, and experimenting with that being "enough". Back in the city, I wonder how to make these choices. If I am baseless, formless, on what should I base and form my decisions? I feel a strong urge to be normal for a while, but my idea of normal is vague at best. I want to take this job, get an apartment, take some deep breaths, and stop worrying.

I went to the library today and stocked up on books and CDs. Now I am transferring the music to iTunes, where it will live forever! This seems amazing to me. Free things still look magical - "owning" these songs cannot be this easy. Got some things I'd been wanting for a while: Lucinda Williams, Wilco, The White Stripes, Sufjan Stevens, Prince, Modest Mouse, The Flaming Lips, Bruce Springsteen, Alicia Keys, and Bettye LaVette.

The weather has gotten beautiful, warm, sunny. Yesterday I walked up to the reservoir at Cleveland Circle, walked around it dodging dogs, BU runners, old ladies feeding the ducks, and pensive alterna-boys reading while walking. I sat under a tree and let the no-see-ems bite me while I whittled away at a crossword puzzle and finished up an article on magic from the New Yorker. It was a good afternoon. I look forward to getting more sun, wearing fewer clothes, and feeling my mood thaw along with the ground. Friday my parents will come for an overnight visit. I am occupied with thinking of places for us to go and things for us to eat. At times, this is a pleasant occupation, at others it is anxiety-ridden. I fear the exposure of my life, its limitations and preoccupations.

2008-04-01T15:08:00.004-04:00

Today is rainy and gusting, but it is also 60 FREAKIN DEGREES!!! I am delighted to feel 60 degree raindrops being blown against my face by 60 degree wind gusts.

I can never seem to remember how changeable March can be. This year, it passed in a blur of snow-rain-sleet-sun-fog-cold-warm. I am glad to see April.

Even my alarm clock's failure to alarm me this morning could not shake my relieved ebullience. I finally unloaded the dark secret of my failure(s) to get into grad school to those I hadn't yet told. I feel so much better now, though the future looms perilously close.

This weekend, I will travel to Connecticut to visit my parents and see my sister and brother-in-law. I think it will also be an early birthday celebration for my Mom. Additionally, we'll be using the time to say goodbye to Willie, the sweet, elderly Cairn Terrier who has lived with my parents for the past 5 years. They have decided to have him put to sleep next week, after months of wondering and watching his decline. Blitz's rapid aging before her death reminded my parents that waiting until the animal is pain, paralyzed from a stroke, or completely incapacitated is not always the kindest path. Willie's infirmity over the last several months has prevented my parents from being away from home for more than a day at a time. His sphere and capacity are rapidly dwindling, though his spirit is not. We talked a bit about their decision, which mainly entailed

2008-03-18T14:48:00.002-04:00

Posting because it's time to post. I doubt my capacity for coherency right now. Maybe bullets can help.

Blitz, the cat who lived with my family for the past 22 years, was put to sleep last Thursday. I think of her as "my" cat, but she really belonged to my parents, and herself. She came into our lives accidentally; we had purchased two kittens, one for the family and one for my sister, who was now living on her own. Nora, the perfect, sweet, pretty kitten was to be for us, while Blitz, the scrappy, hyperactive, runt of the litter was to go to my sister. Blitz was soft and cute, as kittens tend to be, but she had been born with a bent tail that formed a club at the end, and her name was a true reflection of her personality. Long story short, Blitz never went to live with my sister, but stayed with the family. After a year or so, she had succeeded in driving her sister away and forcing our older cat out of the house. She knew, long before we did, that she ought to be the only cat in the household. Her ambition far outstripped her maturity and even while staging her not-so-subtle coup of the cat population, she was still trying to nurse at my mother's breast. The latter activity resulted, as one might imagine, in a contentious relationship with my mother, which lasted until the last 5 years or so of Blitz's life. Blitz was adept at bouncing off of walls, achieving high perches, and slaughtering birds. She broke her leg by wedging it into the crotch of a tree in our backyard, then gleefully dragged her tiny cast through her own feces. We have pictures of her snoozing on the couch with her brown-spotted cast. She was very much an outdoor cat, albeit one who enjoyed the comforts of home to the utmost. She spent her days denuding the neighborhood of rodents and hastening the evolution of the bird population by capturing the slower of the species. At night, she would come home to nibble on her food and collect the accolades and attention she so richly deserved. She loved to sleep on human bodies and could often be found colonizing the broadest (or softest) chest, back, buttocks, or thighs in the house. Even at her full adult size, she was smaller than most cats, but had an uncanny knack for taking over even the largest bed. The humans of her realm would wake to find themselves clinging to the edge of the mattress or contorted in pretzel-like shapes, while Blitz sprawled or curled in the middle of a wide nest. She also had a need to knead, and had no compunction about using her claws while she did so. We watched her approach with mingled dread and affection, blocking our tender skin with blankets, pillows, and other armor, so we could have the pleasure of stroking her incredibly soft fur without the attendant pain of her incredibly sharp claws. She also put those claws to use in her working life, sometimes pinning the tail of a small rodent as it tried to escape, other times batting it about, until finally using the same weapon to bring it to its untimely death. Up until the very end of her life, Blitz loved to play, and could be counted on to chase strings, ribbons, shoelaces, and other trailing objects. She was a fool for catnip and could often be found nesting in my mother's herb garden. She loved gardens in general and would find a patch of dirt warm from the sun and doze in the afternoons. She lived in 4 different houses with my parents and found her spots in each of them. In Hamden, her last home, she enjoyed lying half in sun, half in shade at the very edge of the hemlock hedge, where she could watch bugs, stalk birds, and receive the occasional scratch on the chin or ear from an obliging human. She always loved attention and affection, but it was not until her later years that she became truly needy of them. She developed a cantankerous yowl that she would unleash any time someone passed by. In earlier years, this sound would only have been deployed in a true emergency, such as being stuck out in the rain overnight. Several times, I awoke in such a circumstance to find a dripping-wet Blitz sitting outside the second story window, announcing her displeasure. After what one must assume were many attempts to gain our attention at the usual doors and windows, she had climbed up onto the roof and wanted to be let in there. The yowl also came in handy when she had snuck into the attic and been locked in there by an unsuspecting human. For me, she is the model for all other cats, and I find myself puzzled and disappointed when they do not respond to the same type of scratching and petting that Blitz appreciated. She trained me how to be a cat owner, and I know I will think of her whenever I put those skills to use. They will never be used so fondly or so well again.

Apparently, this post is like a sheriff in an old Western: one bullet was all it needed to get the job done.

2008-03-11T16:46:00.002-04:00

The spring sun is here! Though it is still 34 degrees outside, the sun is shining and it is actually conveying warmth to the earth. I like it. I will even accept it in trade for having to wait for the T in the dark each morning, due to Daylight Savings. The seasonal transitions in New England are so miraculous. I never get inured to them, no matter how many I experience. True, they are hard on the body, which responds slowly to the changes, but they are full of so many hopeful signs and marvelous stimuli.

I am having a more positive week. Possibly, this is due to having caught on some much-needed sleep over my spa-weekend in Connecticut. I have also reached a point of semi-acceptance and hopefulness about the future. That is, I no longer think that my prospects for a productive, meaningful life are squandered. Also, the sun is WARM. This cannot be overrated.

One possibility: applying for an MFA program and working through it as a part-time student, while also holding down a job. Believe it or not, this possibility never occurred to me. I am not great at combining things, at least in my plans for the future, or "what I might do". Right now, the idea of not having to choose one path (ie. work or school), but actually finding ways to make my situation work for me, is very appealing.

I'm going to publish this now, because Blogger keeps frantically notifying me that it has lost its connection...

2008-03-05T10:40:00.003-05:00

I've reached some new plateau; I am writing this from work. It's a slow day and I am bent on making it slower. It's rainy and foggy outside, with occasional bursts of sunshine. I am looking forward to seeing some good friends who've been out of the country for a while, wondering if my fatigue will lift enough for me to be a good companion, and worrying that I am coming down with a cold. A few people at work have been truly stricken with illness: strep throat, flu, and other semi-serious afflictions. I feel a certain amount of reasonable hypochondria is in order. I am loading up on zinc, vitamins, and liquids, but sleep has been elusive. Since that is usually the one ingredient that makes the cure, I am concerned about its lack.

After a brief foray into "real" literature, via Cormac McCarthy's bleak and satisying Road, I am back to popping romance novels at an alarming pace. Part of the reason for my lack of sleep is my habit of staying up too late reading the latest romance. I am not sure which comes first, the novel or the insomnia. My new therapist seems inclined to delve into my romance-reading proclivities, so perhaps some sort of revelation and/or acceptance is forthcoming. For now, I will begrudgingly admit that this self-soothing method is probably not the worst one I could pursue. How's that for damning with faint praise?

2008-02-28T14:59:00.002-05:00

Today, winter came back with a vengeance. As I shivered at the T-stop this morning, I felt inexplicably delighted by the cold. I suspect that I am a person who has trouble letting go of seasons. I want to be in the throes of the weather, whatever it might be, not teased and tantalized by intimations of the next season. I like winter in Boston, too. I like looking out the window and seeing snow on the train tracks and snow on the tops of the trees and snow on the roofs of the houses on the opposite hillside. I like rushing through the cold wind along with the rest of the commuters, stepping into the warmth of a cafe or bookstore, and feeling my neck get prickly with heat under my scarf. As I remember from my short stay in Minnesota, the drama of piling on all those layers, only to peel them off quickly once inside, is very satisfying.

In other news: 2 out of 3 colleges do not want me to attend their graduate programs. This is extremely disheartening, though perhaps not as devastating as it seemed at first. The second rejection is still very fresh, but I have successfully numbed myself to it, only succumbing to a few flare-ups during the day. When I begin to consider the implications, I feel such a strong surge of panic that I am loathe to continue considering. I will need to think about other possibilities at some point, but right now I can't think what those might be. I feel fairly ashamed about not getting into these schools - I don't want everyone to know - and I recognize that I really do consider them to be arbiters of intelligence and merit, despite all my speeches and rants to the contrary. I have fallen short and it feels just as startling and painful as a literal fall.

2008-02-20T14:15:00.002-05:00

For years, my parents have been telling me about a performance by Cyndi Lauper at a Joni Mitchell tribute concert that they saw on TV. They were blown away by the performance and it had become legendary in my mind, though I'd never seen it. The other day, I finally had the presence of mind to look it up on YouTube. It was easy to find and, boy, did it deliver. The performance is astonishing, almost wrenching in its intensity and beauty. She really mined that song for all it was worth. I got shivers and felt tears spring to my eyes several times. Check it out.

2008-02-09T18:36:00.000-05:00

This was a good day. I slept late, breakfasted, read, then clothed myself and set out on an adventure. My adventures mainly consist of lots and lots of walking, followed by coffee and more walking. Today's was no exception. I decided to walk down to Brookline Village, returning High School Musical 2 (yes, I'm wincing as I write that) to the Redbox at Stop 'n' Shop on the way. Once I reached Brookline Village, it seemed advisable to keep going to Kenmore Square (which I've only just realized is NOT Kendall Square). It was sunny, in a pale, wintry way, and it felt good to be moving. The more I walk around, the more I actually begin to piece together the layout of the city - mainly the way in which places I've visited by train/bus/car are connected to each other. Most often, it turns out that a place to which I had journeyed by 2 or 3 trains turns out to be right next to a place that is within walking distance from my house. Also, walking allows me to stay in contact with the parts of the city that are not so shiny or groomed for consumption. After a few blocks of dingy warehouses, I walked through a lovely little park which happens to be the one I had glimpsed many times when driving M to school and H to the doctor. I figured out that if I walked some ways in the other direction, through that park, I would end up near the MFA and the Gardner Museum. Today, however, I stuck to the plan and walked down Brookline Ave to Kenmore. I considered several Starbucks, umpteen Dunkin Donuts, and a few independent coffee shops, but kept going. I stopped in the Barnes and Noble, eschewing their cafe for a quick look at a guidebook, then set off for the Trident Bookstore and Cafe on Newbury. There, I had an incredibly small but well-appointed cobb salad and 2 cups of really good coffee. The place was hopping, but the waitress seemed content to let me stay there all day, drinking free refills, reading my romance novel, and starting a new crossword puzzle. I, however, was not comfortable taking up space that seemed needed for others, so I paid and wandered over to the bookstore side to check it out. They have a good selection, but it is way too crowded on a Saturday to make for enjoyable browsing. I found a small selection of used CDs and ended up buying 3: Loretta Lynn's Van Lear Rose, Tift Merritt's Tambourine, and a Blue Note jazz compilation. Buying CDs feels so strange these days, as if I were insisting on cooking in a cast iron cauldron over a fire while the newfangled range sits unused. Especially since I will be downloading these CDs and putting them on my nano anyway. When I left the store, it was beginning to snow, so I bundled up, feeling like a seasoned New Englander for bringing all my winter paraphernalia. The air was cold and crisp and the snow fell so gently; my spirits were buoyed and I decided to keep walking. Half a block away, I followed temptation and turned down an alley. This alley contained the back lots and parking for rows of condos and brownstones. It was so quiet and peaceful to be just off the street this way. I put my headphones on and queued up Ryan Adams' "Come Pick Me Up". The snow fell softly in between the tall corridors of buildings. The song provoked its familiar combination of longing, aching, and happiness. The alley stretched on for blocks, hemming me into my own little slice of the city, as the music soared and my feet strode along. It was a wonderful series of moments.

2008-01-30T17:22:00.000-05:00

Today I decided to vote for Barack Obama in the Massachusetts primary on Feb 5th. Subsequent to this decision, I read an interesting article in the New Yorker that ended up being kind of a character study of Hillary Clinton. The article made me like her more and empathize with her as a person and as a woman, but it didn't change my vote. I got more of a sense of the causes of her current affect and positions and a stronger narrative that makes her movements and statements cohesive in a way they hadn't been before (at least for me). I also got the guilty sense that it's her very womanhood (her experiences as a female-identified person living in the US, to be more specific) which has formed the opinions that I find hard to take. Her combativeness, competitiveness, and inability to show her humanity make her an unappealing candidate, one who resembles the garden-variety politician more than any sort of "new" choice. Her policy ideas and style of governance are not interesting or compelling to me and I see no reason to think that she will change those any time soon. Not to mention that voting for a woman simply because of the "fact" of her female-ness goes against all my training and belief. (Though there is definitely a political and social need for women-as-symbols in prominent political positions. See Condoleeza Rice for the ways in which this need can be fulfilled and stymied simultaneously.)

In short, it turns out that I'm just like the rest of the American people: prepared to vote not on the issues, or any concrete sense of how to change things, but rather on the emotional desire for change and the feeling that the rhetoric of hope is a good start on hope itself.

Work sucks more than usual this week. Today, I seriously considered quitting after this week - that is, if they don't let me go first :) Then I wondered what job I could possibly find that would be any better. I begin to sense why I might be looking for hopefulness in a political candidate; I get enough cynicism every day, just listening to my own thoughts. I have pretty much completely given up on the internship. I think I can trust the fact that I NEVER work on it to signify that perhaps I am not "on board". Now I need to figure out if/when I should tell Carol about this and whether I should allow myself to a) be swayed by her attempts to get me to stay, b) be offended if she doesn't make any such attempts, or c) put this off for several more weeks. If I quit the internship, do I have to start working full time? If I don't work full time, will I experience such overwhelming ennui that I will begin to miss the internship? Is change worth it? Maybe it's easier to just go along with the current program until I reach the edge of the world and fall off.

2008-01-28T15:30:00.000-05:00

Inspired by my friend PG, I have decided to make a list of movies I want to see. Her list was of movies she has already seen in the past year, but it reminded me that I have been meaning to list the movies I've yet to see, so I can either rent them or put them in my Netflix queue. If the writer's strike continues, I will not watch the Oscar broadcast, which takes some of the pressure off! Though, come to think of it, I haven't kept up with Oscar-nominated movies for many years. I used to be a zealot about it and I used to read movie magazines like crazy, so I knew about all the movies before they came out. I also used to go to the movies once or twice a week. Now, it's more like once or twice every few months.

Movies I Want to See that I Still Haven't Seen (from 2007, mostly)
1. Michael Clayton
2. No Country for Old Men
3. Juno
4. Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
5. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
6. Sweeney Todd
7. In the Valley of Elah
8. Eastern Promises
9. Charlie Wilson's War
10. Away From Her
11. The Savages
12. American Gangster
13. Gone Baby Gone
14. Control
15. The Darjeeling Limited
16. Half Nelson
17. The Good German
18. Once

I love making lists...until they exhaust me. Around # 13 I started to feel fatigue setting in. How/when will I possibly watch all these movies? At least I saw "There Will Be Blood". It was so satisfying, I might not have to see another movie all year. Even its flaws were beautiful and bold.

2008-01-24T15:34:00.000-05:00

Ah, the cheerful bullet point, ready at a moment's notice to turn morbid, rambling digressions into bouncy agenda items!
It's grey and cold outside and I can't believe it's not snowing. The air looks edible, as though I could bite into it like firm, dense snow.
I am living for the weekends now, racing through the weekdays in order to effect my escape as soon as Friday afternoon rolls around. When I think about people dying young (Heath Ledger), being diagnosed with incurable diseases (entire panel on NPR last night), or losing their ability to enjoy life as old age takes over (my roommate), I imagine that I should be suffused with a new sense of the NOW and how to live it. Not so. I am still mired in the curiously stagnant present.
The second season of Weeds was fantastic. I can't wait for the third to become available!
I got blindsided by the New Yorker recently. Absorbed in the tale of Sergio Vieira de Mello's doomed attempt to put Iraq to rights, I forgot that this was a true story, with a known ending. His death in the 2004 UN bombing took me cruelly by surprise, as if it were just happening for the first time. I was shocked and saddened in a way I hadn't been when hearing about the bombing in the news. Though I was reading the article as research for my internship study of SRSGs and their qualifications, I was unexpectedly most touched by the very attributes that made his leadership of the UN Peacekeeping Mission a failure. He was clearly ready to move on from his professional life into something more personal. He didn't get off on the danger anymore.
I finally called the Boston Psychotherapy Institute to find a therapist. I realized that I am feeling exactly the way I felt 10 years ago when I first started therapy - like I am stuck in a rut and I can't find my way out of it alone. My intelligence, self-awareness, empathy, and emotional experience are not the only tools required. I am waiting for the intake person to call me back so I can get the ball rolling.
Helen listens to romance novels on tape. Recently, she asked me to order some of my favorites for her. It has been embarrassing and awkward to hear these stories read aloud! I am alternately blase and defensive about sharing something that feels unexpectedly personal and almost shameful. For a long time, I have only shared romance novel recommendations with my mom.

2008-01-10T19:24:00.001-05:00

It's a New Year, but, judging by the state of my blog, I am only turning over old leaves. My brain, heart, and life are very full, but not clear and hopeful, which is (maybe) the state which would provoke blogging. I get sick of writing about my same old anxieties, frustrations, and problems, and I imagine that my audience of 3 or 4 might get sick of hearing about them. Lots of nice transitory pleasures have crossed my path over the last few weeks, but the general state of things is pretty much the same. I have had bursts of optimism, during which I recognize how well I am doing. But these are eclipsed by a stronger feeling of "not doing well" that is very persistent and possessing of mutant strength. I have regressed to a feeling that would be very familiar to my young self, to my 20-year-old self, and to many other selves in between. The struggle of my life has been one against my overweening expectations of myself.

I have also realized that, for someone who is a true homebody, I have not done such a great job providing myself with a home. I have moved nearly 30 times in my 31 years, and I am not done yet. This realization exposes a gap between my inner and outer lives that is staggering in its width. I have never been good at figuring out how to make my external life - by which I mean jobs, houses, interactions - complement my inner life. Instead, I seem to try to force my inner self to accept the trappings of some other standard of living. It's a painful inconsistency.

See what I mean about old leaves? I hope they are turning into some good mulch by this point. I feel an urge to post the positives of my life, but that feels almost like a cheat. So many wonderful things happen to me, I do so many good things, I am surrounded and loved by so many good people, but right now these things don't seem to make a dent in my overall unwell-being. And yet...in general, my days pass happily enough. This deep sorrow and dissatisfaction only manifest when I sit still and try to write.

2007-12-20T19:04:00.000-05:00

Last night I realized that the colleges I am applying to are all located on I-95. It's a new strategy for college application - the Interstate Method. If I added Brown and MIT to the mix, I'd have a complete itinerary. It makes me feel weird, like I have been programmed by aliens and have no free will. Maybe that's what happens in private school...

2007-11-29T15:08:00.000-05:00

The Christmas Card Debacle of 2007 is almost at an end. Putting the fresh labels on the painstakingly glued and stamped envelopes was truly satisfying. Leaving the misspellings and typos created by my predecessor on the fresh labels was also a rare treat. What a heady mixture of responsibility and unaccountability! O, an admin's life for me. Yo ho ho, indeed.

2007-11-27T20:33:00.000-05:00

It occurs to me sporadically that my life is pretty good. Or rather, the individual ingredients that make up my life look good on a platter. Somehow, however, the sum of all these parts is less than satisfying. I have pretty constant anxiety and pretty predictable bouts of melancholia (so much more literary than depression). The source seems to be a constant low-grade certainty that I am not doing "the right thing". This thing changes all the time, but it is always not what I am doing. It's hard to keep perspective in this ever-shifting landscape of criticism. So, I keep reminding myself of the good things in life. Sometimes saying them out loud, writing them down, or just thinking about them lifts my mood.

In other news, today I experienced the white collar equivalent of banging one's head with a hammer to forget about the pain in one's thumb (or is it vice versa?). My regular job involves scanning all of the paper documents produced by the company, in order for them to attain paperlessness. Not only is the irony of this not lost on me, it fairly smothers me with its obviousness at every moment. But back to the hammer: today, instead of scanning, I collated, corrected, and compiled addresses for the company Christmas card list and hand-addressed over 50 envelopes. Upon completion of this task, I was actually relieved and even almost excited to scan some documents. I felt a sweet nostalgia about the scanning and performed the familiar motions with a sense of homecoming. Gotta love it.

I finally asked for help with my grad school essay. After a couple of frustrated and unproductive hours at the library yesterday, I emailed a rough draft to my adviser and a few friends. The relief was palpable. It felt so good to let go of my shame, resistance, and perfectionism! My adviser has already sent it back with some helpful comments, which I will act upon as soon as I get over my instinctive resistance to suggestions of any kind.

I found out that I'm not very good at Scrabble. But I am still playing it! This is another true victory of my mature life.

2007-11-14T19:41:00.000-05:00

Tonight I have conferred well-being upon myself. I took a bath and am sitting in cozy pajamas, drinking a pot of tea. It was a stressful day, peppered with little pockets of goodness. Now I find myself with a rare few hours alone. I am not doing anything substantively different than I normally do, but the silence and certainty of being alone makes this a special time.

I am looking after my boss's daughter until next Wednesday. She will be out late at night almost every night, so I might have more moments like this one in the next few days. Balancing work, caring for H, and dealing with M feels like a lot. The internship is going to be obsolete for the next week and a half. I hope I will find/make time to complete a good draft of my grad school essay so I can at least get my recommenders squared away. The first deadline is a month from tomorrow and I have doubts as to whether I'll make it.

My thoughts are jumbled yet curiously static. It's difficult to write about my life and state of mind. I think I am withholding thoughts and feelings from myself in order to remain somewhat positive. There are lots of negatives right now, but I don't want to see them or catalogue them. Therapy would be a good place to take these issues and air them out. Right now, they'll remain musty in the corners of my mind.

2007-11-02T23:04:00.001-04:00

Hmmm...time to post again. It's now November and I feel changeable, like the weather and the season. My psyche is alternately chilled and heated and I never know how best to suit it up.

I have a job now. It's pretty much unutterably awful, almost comic in its badness. If only the boss in the pink shirt with the white collar from Office Space would lean on my cubicle and ask me about my TPS report. Perhaps I will glean the beginnings of a satirical novel from this. However, I suspect I will only glean even more support for the idea of going to grad school. My applications have stalled and it's hard to know what this portends. I hope I will complete them. I hope some sort of latent ambition or drive or utter panic will give me the impetus to finish this process.

The internship is also hot and cold. I will meet with my boss this weekend to talk about what I'm (not) doing. I am certainly "doing" a lot of self-criticism and blame, so hopefully this meeting will help me put things in perspective. I have to remember all the changes I've been going through over the last months. And I have to share some of the weight of this with my boss, whose frenetic life often gets in the way of her ability to mentor.

Ongoing positives include riding the T, working at the various libraries in the area, daily communion with my roommate, savoring the bite in the air when it shows its teeth, FutureSex/LoveSounds, romance novels, the New Yorker, and frequent contact with Carleton and Mount Holyoke friends.

Maybe I should go to grad school for something other than Sociology. Shifting gears like that both tantalizes and terrifies me. Often I feel like the only thing I'm really good at is being Jenny Smith. Couldn't I just be employed at being me? Or read a bunch of stuff, synthesize it, write about it, but never define its category or discipline?

Another definite good: Johnny Cash singing "I Still Miss Someone" in Folsom Prison. Strangely, this song always makes me miss California.

2007-10-22T12:03:00.000-04:00

First of all, we can all breathe easy because the Red Sox are safely in the World Series. Of course, I expect Boston to spontaneously combust sometime in the next week or so.

I am procrastinating, to the benefit of my blog. I have many hours of interning to complete, but I am burnt out on my current project, so I think I'd better blog. Also, I should be writing my personal statement for grad school applications. Today I sent off checks to Carleton, Mount Holyoke, and ETS to get scores and transcripts sent. I'm hoping these literal checks will spur some figurative reality checks in the application process. In any case, it feels good and nostalgic to have a reason to procrastinate again.

I had a good, social weekend. On Friday, I took the train down to Lakeville/Middleboro to meet Keith. It's an hour's ride on a very comfortable train. I sat on the top deck and enjoyed the view of leaves changing, small towns, and cranberry bogs. The ride back to South Station on Saturday was enhanced by the presence of outlying Red Sox fans. I spent Saturday night in a bar in Harvard Square, watching Game 6 and losing my voice and my hearing. Sunday I had brunch with my sister and her friend in Brighton. I enjoyed walking around the city, continuing to figure out where things are located, and in what relation to each other. The days have been warm and bright, perfect for rowing, sculling, and baseball.

This week finds me reconsidering things. The only constant is how much I enjoy Boston. The internship is unsatisfying for a variety of reasons and my search for part-time work has stalled again. I wonder if I should form a new plan - work full-time and scrap the internship? I'm going to give it a couple more months and then revisit this idea. Or maybe I need to scrap grad school and look into professional positions instead. The possibilities keep hope and anxiety alive.

2007-10-14T11:14:00.000-04:00

A lot has changed since my last post, but remnants of that mood cling. Transition is transition, with all its incumbent uncertainty. At least now my transitional feelings are taking place in new, interesting environs. I am living on the 5th floor of an apartment building in Brookline. I love being in Boston and my fascination is enhanced by the very specific time of year and set of circumstances in which I've arrived. I am speaking, of course, about the baseball post-season. The Red Sox are battling the Cleveland Indians for the ALCS pennant. I am a peripheral and intermittent fan, at best, but even I can feel the fever. I walked down by Fenway yesterday, around 1pm the day of an 8:20pm game. Fan were already roaming around in packs, bedecked in red and blue (and the occasional pink - MLB's unfortunate nod to femininity), seemingly just there to soak up the atmosphere. The weather was startlingly beautiful and the air lay sparkling around the park, shimmering and charged with excitement. Little did those early-gathering fans know: the game that night would last 5 hours and 14 minutes, finally discharging its weary and (momentarily) defeated denizens at 1:37am. I wonder what the atmosphere around the park felt like then?

I can report that Boston is a good place to be lonely, unemployed, and indecisive. I am feeling and experiencing all those things, but also the thrill of being in a new city that contains much to compel and fascinate. In a flash, I can take to the streets and discover new territory. I can nurse my nagging indecision over an excellent cup of coffee and eavesdrop on the deciders around me. I can take my laptop to the stunning courtyard of the public library in Copley Square and wait for inspiration to strike. I can gaze out my 5th floor window and let the vista of trees, old buildings, and hills spark my emotions. I can immerse myself in the chaos and confusion of the Haymarket farmer's market on a Saturday afternoon. I can wander the North End in search of pastry, secretly superior to all the tourists who are just visiting this city. I'm even enjoying the job search, as it takes me hither and yon, on the T and on foot, into high rises, hospitals, and ramshackle office parks. I almost dread the day when I will be returning to the same place over and over. These initial interviews are so delicious, filled with promise and flirtation, like a first date before the unfortunate political views of ones companion are revealed. I scan my email and phone messages, wondering if I'll get called back for a "second date". As delicious as the interviews are, the waiting is dismal. Time passes slowly and my worries proliferate. At least I am safe and secure in my housing and somewhat solvent, for the moment.

Just took a break from writing to discuss politics, baseball, and the visiting cat. I am keeping the plants in my room while the cat is here, so I have a jungle to contemplate. I watered my jungle and now I wonder what the rest of the day will bring, or what I will bring to it.

2007-09-27T15:30:00.000-04:00

Here, borrowed from my Dad's friend's blog, is a great little article on dealing with transition. It pretty much lays out all the things I've been feeling lately, then contextualizes them as part of a "Neutral Zone" which comes into being during transitional periods. It's helpful to know that others experience this kind of profound dislocation, and helpful to get permission to be in the thick of it for as long as I need to be.

2007-09-18T13:58:00.001-04:00

Yep, there's simply too much to write about and my mood is so unreliable that I fear publishing a bunch of cranky whining and existential angst. The following is a list of my current preoccupations:
1. finding a part-time job in Boston
2. thinking about moving in with my new 85-year-old roommate in (less than) two weeks
3. related to the above - considering how to most efficiently move my scattered possessions to Boston and trying not to consider the responsibilities I will bear for helping said roommate
4. what to do about parking at my new home: there's no overnight street parking in Brookline and it costs upwards of $120/month to rent a parking space in a garage.
5. my internship and whether or not I am spending enough time/doing good work/impressing my boss or, alternately, able to find something of value for myself in all this (ie. why am I doing this in the first place?)
6. grad school applications - where? why? how? can I bring myself to write a personal statement? will I get everything in on time? do I really want to pursue more education? is sociology the right discipline for me?

Lying awake at night, as I am prone to do more and more often lately, these topics run through my head, along with concerns about my parents' eventual death, my long-term relationship with an alcoholic, my inability to feel any lasting ambition, and other cheery concerns. I am most definitely in the midst of some sort of depression - I am a fairly high-functioning depressive. Every day I get up, work on my internship, apply for a few more jobs, research grad programs, and get through the day. Some days I feel more positive and hopeful; I enjoy my work/research/applications. Some days I just want to stay in bed.

For today, things are looking up. There's a savory pot roast slow-cooking on the stove. The sky is blue and crystalline, the way it gets when the temperature starts dropping along with the leaves. I have an appointment with a temp agency for Monday; this will get me out of the house and make me feel like I am doing something concrete to get myself a job. Despite feeling extremely lazy when I got up this morning, I managed to work on my internship task for 1.5 hours, leaving me only 2.5 hours more to fulfill my daily (self-imposed) goal. I read an article in the New Yorker that got my intellectual juices flowing and gave me some ideas about topics for my grad school essay. I am safe, warm, and in a familiar place for the moment. Who could ask for anything more?

2007-09-10T16:50:00.000-04:00

I haven't been able to write much lately. I do a drive-by of my blog every day, consider posting, then find something else to do. I'm not really sure how to write about what's going on with me; I'm not really sure what is going on with me. I'm definitely not sure how I feel about it.

I paid a helpful visit to my parents this past weekend. I left their house with a much cheerier outlook on life, my life in particular. But I still don't know how to write about it.

I've been wondering where my taste for trashy sentimentality comes from. I have always prided myself on at least knowing what real art, real culture, good film, etc is even if I don't choose to patronize it. More and more, I am forced to admit that the line is blurring for me. This becomes apparent when I recommend books, music, and movies to others. I am increasingly unable to predict who might like what and which media are really good/worthwhile/intelligent. I like what I like, and damn the torpedoes. This is all part of the middle-Americanization of my soul, I suspect. I am one of those people who grew up with pretensions to intellectualism, valuing culture over commerce, complexity over sentimentality. Strip away the fancy schooling and vocabulary, however, and I am just as low-to-middle brow as everyone else. Am I thisclose to becoming a Libertarian? Will I serve my kids Chef Boyardee? Will I continue to notice cultural distinctions? Does it really matter?

2007-08-28T13:56:00.002-04:00

My friend Kevin coined the term "limboland" at some point during our first year of college. The word used to make us laugh uproariously - something about the combination of syllables and sounds, coupled with the absurd rightness of the concept as a descriptor of that place that is no place, sent us into spasms of laughter. Of course, such spasms were not uncommon that year.

Now that I am once again approaching that Zen-like state of heightened indolence that might very well be categorized as limboland, the concept is less uproarious. I find myself feeling grateful that there might be a word to describe this place-that-is-not-a-place where I am located. I am on the verge of doing/moving/working/changing but I am not there yet; my present inertia is charged with the knowledge of imminence. Since I have been here before, it is fitting that this spot on the map should have a name. Welcome to Limboland.

2007-08-26T23:07:00.001-04:00

The blessings and the mixing continue apace. I suppose the real miracle is that I continue to expect things to go according to plan! Or that I expect there to be some sort of plan...If I look at the pattern of my life so far, it certainly does not contain too many orderly pathways or grids.

Today I read a poignant article by a man with Asperger's Syndrome. He was not diagnosed (indeed the syndrome hadn't entered mainstream diagnostic texts) until mid-life and he touchingly describes the relief he felt once he found out that his differences and difficulties had a name. He also benefited from the gradual sifting and sorting we all undertake as we age, finding the jobs, activities, people, and lifestyles that might suit us better than those we've been given, or led to expect. But, undeniably, the diagnosis lessened his self-criticism and the anxiety of not-knowing.

As someone who has always felt that she didn't fit in, I read the article with a curious sense of solidarity - there but for the grace of a few genes go I? A friend writes of discovering a book that tells how to raise an introverted child. Through reading the book, she came to recognize and accept her child's introversion, as well as that of her partner. I remembered the joy I felt upon completion of the Myers-Briggs test, which labeled me an INFP. Many of the broad characteristics attributed to INFPs fit me, at least the way I see myself, but the item that brought the greatest relief, and attendant joy, was the acknowledgement that modern US society doesn't welcome or understand introversion. This was the first time I'd ever considered that I was not solely to blame for my differences. It was thrilling to feel that perhaps I was not wrong, just trying to fit into a way of life that didn't suit me. It's not a blanket dismissal of personal responsibility - I still need to find ways to get along in the world and function in society - but it lessens the burden of criticism and the pain of never-quite-getting-it.

Reading about Asperger's sends a whisper of familiarity along my senses, along with a healthy dose of relief - my afflictions are not so severe, nor so puzzling. But I am reminded, as I often am when reading about mental illness, psychiatric diagnoses, diseases, and other medical evaluations, that the line separating THEM from ME is fine indeed. A diagnosis can free us - from self-criticism, denial, fear, anxiety, censure - but it can also too neatly define difference as "other". It confirms that which we have feared and suspected: there is something wrong with me. At the same time, it allows us to name our fear and move on, secure in our place in the social continuum. Sometimes that acceptance is a boon to me; other times I wonder if it lets me off the hook a little too much. For the author of the article I've mentioned, diagnosis was a minor emotional miracle, but not a cure.

2007-08-24T16:25:00.000-04:00

Mixed blessings. I am still a beneficiary of magical thinking, but I am also victim to my own impracticality. I just found out that the internship I got, though undeniably wonderful and useful, is also UNPAID. That is one colossal wrench in the works. I feel a bit foolish, a bit humbled - did I misread the ad? Was there a typo? Or did I simply see what I wished was there? However it happened, I put lots of hope and plans into this being an internship/job, not just a learning experience. And couldn't the learning have begun along with internship, not before it?

I am thrown and a bit panicked, but mostly just full of the dread of the job search, dread of putting myself out there again, dread of figuring it all out. As K points out, my project for this weekend will be my life.

Oh, also, I am embarrassed to have to inform everyone about this new information. Yech.

2007-08-21T13:06:00.001-04:00

Hooray for magical thinking! I have always suspected that I lead something of a charmed existence. Recent events confirm this hypothesis. I applied for an internship a few weeks ago, then went on a vacation to Martha's Vineyard. While I was gone, the director of the internship replied to my application asking for references. I sent out an APB to my referrers, then went to Northern Vermont for a week. I arrived home Saturday to find that I'd received the internship! Now that I've gotten what I wanted, plus two wonderful vacations, I have to thank the gods, the universe, my parents, my social circle, Mount Holyoke connections, my own optimism, and of course, magical thinking, for this bounty. I also need to start looking for a place to live in Boston, without knowing if I'll be making enough money to live there, but that sounds slightly less magical, and is an entry for another time.

2007-08-08T10:49:00.000-04:00

It seemed like time to check in here. I have nothing to write, or perhaps too much to report to consider writing it well. My extended vacation has been trundling along, extending further and further until I can barely imagine an end to it. This is an unexpected blessing, but also, in the way of blessings, something of a curse. I have managed to apply for one job/internship, but that's it, so the real world is at bay through the power of denial and magical thinking.

Time to go make the rounds: Target, Barnes and Noble, Radio Shack, et al.

2007-07-24T14:18:00.000-04:00

My friend recently posted on her blog that she is too low energy even for blogging. She wondered "how can one run out of energy for narcissism?" I am here to say that narcissism is EXHAUSTING. It requires way more energy than almost anything else. And, of course, it is pretty tiring for others to deal with as well.

Case in point: my birthday. The adequate celebration of my birthday has been an ongoing struggle for about 10 years now. Clearly, the needs and feelings that center on my birthday are larger than life can handle. I have good years and bad years, but it is always some sort of struggle in which I try to be honest about my needs without being demanding and those around me try to fulfill my needs without being resentful. Yeesh. This year was a mixed bag. I felt very satisfied about my birthday before and after the day itself. However, on the actual day, I was beset by melancholy and loneliness. I suspect those latter feelings were exacerbated by my current state of unemployed limbo. Also, the internet doesn't help. The first thing I did upon awaking on my birthday was to open up several tabs in Firefox so I could flip fruitlessly back and forth between GMail, Facebook, MySpace, and my other email accounts, looking for signs of birthday love. Of course, I was doomed to disappointment by both my strategy and my expectations. Nevermind that two days before, I was feted and pampered by my boyfriend in a fancy hotel room in Boston. Nevermind that the day after, my parents drove for over an hour through nasty weekend traffic to bring me a cake my mom had prepared early that morning. Nevermind that most of my friends and family don't even know where in the world to find me, let alone remember my birthday and commemorate it. Nevermind that I rarely remember any birthday but my own. The old feelings of inadequacy, anger, insecurity, and fear rose up in me and spread along my limbs and skin like a particularly virulent virus.

Today, July 24th, I am sufficiently relieved from my own narcissism. The world is a brighter place! I will call my dad later to wish him a Happy Birthday and, what is better, I will mean it.

On another note, I finished the latest, and final, Harry Potter at 3am this morning. It was an odd feeling. I had devoured the book, sometimes almost skipping words and sentences in my hunger to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I was completely panicked the whole time, certain that either Ron or Hermione would be killed at any moment. I couldn't even tell if I liked the book, because I was trembling with the knowledge that it was the last one. Going on some message boards helped - people expressed many of the same feelings and thoughts I'd had and I had the nice, arrogant feeling that I'd understood some things others had not. I was amazed to see that some people were planning to reread the entire novel immediately upon finishing it! I definitely need a break, though I think I'll eventually reread the entire series. It is especially satisfying to think back on the arc of the books and see that the main excitement and concerns of the first book are so different from the last, and yet connected. One of the cool things about the series is the way that the author understands the shifting of concerns from age 11 to age 17 and how she mirrors that shifting in the events of her plot. She also does very well with metaphors made manifest, symbolism brought into the literal world. I have really enjoyed these books and I can't quite believe that there won't be more.

2007-07-18T13:55:00.000-04:00

This is the first post minted on my brand new MacBook. I look forward to improved clarity and functionality, though perhaps these will translate only to the aesthetics of my posts, not the content. The new laptop is one result of a wonderful long weekend spent with my parents. The weekend was the graduation present I requested and the hardware was the graduation present my parents' suggested. So, both parties are satisfied with the weekend, and I have received two incredibly generous presents.

The weekend began on Friday with a trip to New York City to see the Richard Serra exhibit at MoMA. We rode in on the train, chortling quietly as we sped past the stalled traffic on 95. We grabbed coffee and pastry at Grand Central, then walked over to 53rd and 5th. We began our viewing with Serra's more recent pieces, commissioned especially for this exhibit. They were shown in the large installation rooms on the 2nd floor. I haven't been to MoMA since junior year of high school (1993) when Mr. Cobbett took our Modernism class to view "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon," "The Starry Night," Mondrian, Cezanne, Braque, and all the other stars of the movement. I scarcely remember the old layout and am very impressed with the new building. The space is appealing and well-designed. There are several stunning vistas and precipitous views. Best of all, they have created a space equal to the power and scale of Serra's massive steel sculptures. As someone who loves works of art but struggles with the inanity of museum-going and museum-goers, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself alone for several minutes in one of the folds of "Band".

The large-scale sculptures readily accomplish one of Serra's stated aims: namely, to make the viewer feel like she is interacting with the works in a visceral, physical sense. As the curving sheets of steel fold in, lean over, and lean back, the human body responds to the space that is either created or withdrawn. The response is not intellectual or even purely emotional, but rather a complex interplay of psychological and biological stimuli. Perhaps Serra has hit upon the conclusive answer to the question of biology vs philosophy: in space, no one can hear you cogitate. The body and the mind, matter and spirit, blend seamlessly into one wholly experiential creature whose thoughts and feelings stream through her physical being. There is no separation and a feeling of extreme well-being permeates.

My fancy has taken flight, so I will hold off on the description of our further adventures until it has landed again.

2007-07-09T10:22:00.000-04:00

I've landed in another safe haven. Perhaps I should liken myself to a beautiful species of migratory bird, possessed of rare stamina and a plangent appreciation for distance. Instead, I am too self-absorbed to liken myself to anything but myself. I, me, my self, brain, body, ego, chemical makeup, whatever we want to call this collection of feelings and impulses; whatever we call it, it's flooded its banks and taken over. I realized yesterday that I have been so focused on not overstaying my welcome, not asking too much, not taking up too much space, that I've overlooked the feelings of those around me. In other words, I've been so hypersensitive to what people might be thinking that I've missed what they are actually thinking. This is not the first time I've encountered this problem. I suspect that my monomania, which masquerades as sensitivity, empathy, and just plain "nice"-ness, often leads me into this paradox. My narcissism manifests itself as social paranoia, which results in me acting in a way that gets coded as kind. I am nice to others because I fear for myself.
Update from the tangible world: I am enjoying blueberries and toast. This is my first breakfast toast in many weeks. Today's heat is predicted to be oppressive. Inside the house, with all the windows closed, it is still cool and I am glad for my morning coffee. The bed lies in disarray on the floor, waiting for me to gather the wherewithal to lift it back onto its frame. The dense heaviness of a futon mattress reminds me of a limp body, always more weighty and unwieldy to lift than I would suspect.
I had nightmares last night - the kind that involve not only terror but the threat of physical harm and death. I don't remember what was happening in them, only how relieved I was to wake up. I forced myself to stay awake a few extra minutes before going back to sleep, hoping to sweep the final traces of the previous dream from my unconscious. Those moments are always particularly poignant for me, as my conscious, waking, limited mind tries to predict what my unconscious, sleeping, unlimited mind needs. Somewhat like ruling a vast kingdom from a tiny castle, I would imagine.

2007-07-06T09:36:00.000-04:00

What's that tired old saying about family: they're the ones who, if no one else will take you in, have to take you in? Or something slightly less clumsy? Anyway, I bring this up because I have observed over the last few weeks that, besides having a wonderful family that does want to help me, I have formed a new family that functions the same way. My friends, from Mount Holyoke and beyond, have formed a safety net for me. I hate being in the position to ask for or accept help, but I have been humbled by the willingness my friends show in this area. My semi-permanent summer housing plans fell through yesterday, an occurrence which, at other times in my life, might have dealt a mighty blow. However, I did not feel completely felled by it because I knew I had people I could stay with who would care for me and, even better, appreciate my company until I figured out a Plan F (or G, H, whatever letter I might be up to now). I think it is rare to have such support, but for me it is even rarer to recognize it. When I got the news about my housing, I could feel the support of my friends cradling me and it kept me afloat. How amazing to count on that without having to even speak a word!

2007-07-01T14:49:00.000-04:00

I have been busy adding to my list of temporary homes. Last week was spent in Hamden, CT, "taking care" of my parents' house while they were on vacation. I put that description in quotes because I suspect that rather than me taking care of the house, it was taking care of me. I had a very relaxing week - the only anxiety was introduced by plant-watering and ipod-crushing. Luckily, the latter happened the first day I was there, so I had several days to get over it. I have been extremely careful with my nano for the past year, but all it takes is one not-so-careful moment to blow the whole streak. I stepped on the very corner of the case that was holding the nano and managed to break the inside of my display. So, the music still plays, if I can blindly press the right combination of buttons to make it do so. I miss the damn thing very much, but felt too ashamed to call Apple to see if they'd replace it before the year warranty ended on June 30th. I think part of me never felt like I "should" have an ipod, so at least that part is satisfied.

Now I am house/cat sitting for a former professor. I feel like I'm in permanent limbo - I float from house to house, bringing along my books, my clothes, and my neuroses. This is a pleasant place to land for a bit, if not completely comfortable. I may have to go rent the next installments of Freaks and Geeks to soothe myself. Only I am pretty near broke, so purchases are dodgy at this point. I keep joking with people about it being time for me to recover my work ethic - the humor covers up my fear that I have lost that ethic, or never had it. Prolonged periods of idleness always provoke this fear. I begin to suspect that my current ennui will never end. Of course, it will, if only because I don't have a permanent place to live, a status which requires constant vigilance.

2007-06-14T10:52:00.000-04:00

Class notes for my high school were due yesterday. After receiving an email from our perky, self-appointed class liaison, I went to the website to check them out. I thought about posting - after all, I've just achieved a milestone in my life. But my old shame rose up to block me: my classmates are all posting about MBAs, PhDs, babies, houses, careers, and here I've just graduated from college. I feel ten years behind, stuck in my adolescence, a loser among the cool kids. I try to remind myself that people only write into the alumni magazine when they have something to boast about. I look at the notes from my friends and think about how glad I am to hear from them, how nice their lives look on paper, purged of the trials and tribulations I've heard about along the way. I could narrate my life in that vein. I could joyfully proclaim my achievements and make them valid by doing so. However, I am stymied by my own doubt about the validity of my achievements. I am stopped by insecurity, the very emotion so often stirred by my experience at Choate and rekindled by my re-entry into the world of academia, social pressure, and the tyranny of success.

The epitome of the "class note"? A little update from a man who writes that he has "taken up triathlons," completing 7 in the last year. Yeah? Well I've watched 2 entire seasons of Entourage and one of Deadwood. Call it the triathlon of television.

2007-06-12T15:23:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, whilst checking out Master's programs in Australia, I decided to Google "Australian citizenship". Here's what I found out:

1. "There's Never Been a Better Time to Become an Australian Citizen"
2. There are only 7 requirements for citizenship, the most difficult of which is residency in Australia.
3. Australia has Defence Forces! Who knew? (Also, if you become an Australian citizen, you have to be ready to defend Australia, "should the need arise".)

In contrast, when I visited the USCIS site, I couldn't find any clear instructions on how to become a US citizen. I had to navigate through three levels of the site before I could find out how to begin the process. However, along the way I was reminded that "citizenship is one of the most coveted gifts that the U.S. government can bestow" and told that the USCIS is "securing America's promise" and "protecting America" from all those pesky wannabe immigrants.

Now, if I could only get my parents and all my loved ones to entertain the thought of Australian citizenship, we could help the conservatives out by defecting en masse.

2007-06-09T15:31:00.000-04:00

I figured out what I want to do next. This is kind of a big deal, but I am still being pretty critical of myself, unable to just pat myself on the back for only taking 6 days to figure it out. Anyway, I decided that I want to go back to South Hadley for July and August. This entails finding a (very) cheap place to live and enough odd jobs to keep me in kibble for two months. I spent the morning scouring craigslist, the Alumnae website, and my former professors (not literally, of course) for possibilities. Not looking so good. Maybe I need to give the plan more than 24 hours to happen...

Our big trip to Providence turned into a big bust (K was tired, cranky, and spacey, so we left after only 15 minutes of walking around). However, we were there just long enough to whet our appetites for a bigger, better visit sometime soon. We parked up next to the Brown University campus, which is absolutely gorgeous. Their Philosophy Department building is bigger than most mansions. The lawns were incredibly green and sheltered by huge old trees. The portion we checked out was enclosed by high brick walls punctuated by massive wrought iron gates. I spotted an intriguing sculpture and we went over to check it out. It was several times taller than a person, made entirely of saplings bent to form sinuous geometrical shapes, and had little rooms and alcoves in which to hide. The sculpture was assembled by Brown U students, faculty, and staff, in conjunction with the sculptor. They wound it around several pre-existing trees, which sprout out of the top of some of the "rooms". In short, it was stunning and wonderful. After thoroughly inspecting it, we strolled down the hill, past more mansions containing academic departments (oh, Merrill House, you would have wept) and several promising libraries and museums, into the downtown Providence area. We went to look at a huge statue and started to walk along the river promenade, at which point K completely pooped out and I suggested we return home. We agreed to a return visit next week. Luckily, it was a beautiful day for a drive, so all was not lost!

I'm enjoying my vacation more at this point. I've cut the anxiety down to 1 good bout per day, leaving many wonderful hours in which to loll about, watch movies, read romances, and chat with K. We venture out into the gigantic strip mall that is North Dartmouth at least once a day. Today we visited Office Max and Stop & Shop. But we could just as easily have chosen Walmart, Macy's, Dick's, Home Depot, Barnes and Noble, Target, Best Buy, Shaw's, and any one of a plethora of other options. It's really quite surreal to live amidst this landscape of parking lots, traffic lights, and large fake-adobe facades. Drive a few blocks off the main strip and you enter a perfect suburbia with beautiful lawns, manicured golf courses, and plenty of American flags fluttering from front stoops.

2007-06-07T10:09:00.001-04:00

I've got to get over this whole "only post when I have something to say" fetish. I have nothing to say, and I write this proudly. Over the last two days, I have read blogs, checked my email often, read 2 romance novels and a New Yorker, watched an entire season of Entourage + 2 episodes of Deadwood, cleaned out K's spare room and set up an office, exercised once, and started a new diet. I think this list might comprise a busy 48-hour period for some and a disgusting lack of activity for others. For me, it falls somewhere in the middle. Which is to say, I will never be satisfied with the amount I am doing. What I really want for this vacation is to be completely relaxed AND satisfied. This combination is one I have rarely achieved, but I always seem to expect it of myself. I have this gnawing feeling that maybe I am relaxed and satisfied, underneath all my anxiety and consternation, but I just can't tell.

I keep trying to make little plans for myself, but invariably end up reneging. Today, I thought I'd go to Horseneck Beach but now that seems wildly ambitious. I feel isolated and stuck. But I think I am not really isolated or stuck, I just feel that way. I'm trying to strike a healthy balance between feeling my emotions fully and total denial. So, part of the day I wallow and part of the day I escape.

Tonight, K and I will go to the movies to see Knocked Up. Tomorrow, we will explore Providence a bit.

2007-06-05T10:15:00.000-04:00

So now I've got all this time on my hands. (Ew, gross, time is sticky and hard to wash off.)

Things I think I should be doing during this time (as opposed to thing I want to be doing, things I can do, etc.):
1. LOOK FOR A GODDAMN JOB. I mean, look for a job. This looms the largest, mainly because it caters to several different sources of insecurity and potential woe. Most urgently, I need money, because what I have is running out fast. Slightly less urgently, I feel like I should be working, because of my Puritan genes, the IMs society sends directly to my brain, and the excellent programming of Mount Holyoke to attempt/accomplish great things. Unfortunately, I don't want to find a job, mostly because I fear the job-finding process. I fear the resume-writing. I fear the job description-reading. I fear the interviewing. I fear the relocation. I fear the 9-to-5-ing. At this point in my thought process, I am huddled in a corner of the room, preferably underneath some sheltering object, making the sign of the cross over my head.

2. Applying to grad school. Or at least deciding about/researching grad schools. The need to make decisions about the future seems prominent. None of this namby-pamby waiting around to figure out what I really want. Just decide on something and DO IT. Ah, the fascist Nike commercial that is my brain...

3. Read good literature. At the very least, if I am not looking for a job or making stalwart decisions about the future, I ought to be expanding my mind with the reading of great books. I have a big pile of such books waiting for me. But all I want to do is read romance novels and The New Yorker, perhaps an occasional mystery to punctuate my days.

4. Write every day. But not in blog form or email form; I must write for the sake of writing, 2 hours each day, snippets of novels, short stories, poems, anything with a literary or self-improving bent.

Given the punishing and self-flagellating aspects of the above directives, I begin to see why it is difficult for me to enjoy myself during my down-time. There is always something else I should be doing, and those "somethings else" are elevated to a level of virtue and ambition that my actual thoughts and movements cannot achieve. Also, it turns out the the messages that I fear are only coming from my punishing unconscious are also coming from external sources. This creates an interesting sort of "proof," akin to that achieved by Fox News' referencing of two different sources for its false claims. If two separate voices, each with some sort of seeming authority, speak the same words, then those words take on the heft and force of facts.

The other paralyzing aspect of this situation is that I think it will last forever. I think my hesitation, fear, laziness, well-earned vacation, or whatever it is called, is a permanent state of inertia. However, this has never proven to be true. I do move, act, think, write, decide, change. I just do it on a schedule that seems to lag behind my expectations for myself. Since this topic comes up a lot, in therapy and in conversation with those trusted ones in my life, I even have a nice metaphor for it: my psyche moves in geologic time, while my expectations live in the fast-moving present, the tiny indentation of time in which humans flourish.

2007-06-04T12:50:00.000-04:00

Sic Transit Academia...

It was all a little too easy and a little too quick. In my frenzy of packing and self-imposed deadlines, I did indeed forget to savor the many "lasts": last time on campus as a student, last moment wearing the cap and gown, last night in my little garret room, last time letting Oscar out to pee and chase cats, last time positioning the trash just so on the curb, last time backing carefully onto the lawn, last time popping microwave popcorn in the world's slowest microwave; the list goes on. Of course, one can never savor such final moments while in the midst of them. I suppose what I can savor is that there were so many sweet, small things to savor - even in the apartment I was sure I hated. My last night was lovely once I let it be. After a sleepy dinner at the Florence Diner with E and M, I bought a six-pack of Newcastle, intending to drink a couple and leave the rest for my roommates. I left E and M at their new house, after a bewildered but fervent goodbye. We have been living in each other's pockets for many months. So much air and space will be a shock.

I was so exhausted from the two previous days (indeed, the previous week) that I feared I would not be able to finish up my packing. I brewed some coffee, called K, and hoped. While I was attempting to rally, C called and wanted to stop by to drop off something I'd left at her house the night before. This was somewhat mysterious, as I hadn't left anything at her house. In a few minutes, she and Em stopped by and dropped off a lovely graduation/vacation package, including bath gel, a well-worn and beloved book, a journal, and a beautiful bath sponge. C's note was perfect and made me feel hopeful about my upcoming time of not-knowing. I felt blessed to have a friend who so perfectly understood my needs and fears at this tremulous juncture. (Yes, I've been reading romance novels aplenty and their language seeps into my blog, spreading corrosive juices into the cracks.)

After C left, I rallied and packed for about 2 hours, finally forcing myself to stop. I made up a bed on the couch, moved Oscar's bed down to the living room, popped some popcorn, and loaded up the bad movie of the evening: Because I Said So. Oscar and I shared the popcorn equally, as he eschewed his bed on the floor for the opposite end of the couch, creeping ever closer in his attempt to get more kernels. The movie was satisfyingly awful, with that odd mix of irreverence and conventionality common to many modern romantic comedies. I did not drink any of the beer, fearing the results. I slept fitfully but well enough and woke reinvigorated enough to finish my packing, load the car, and bid Oscar farewell. I pulled out of the driveway at 12:15pm, only 15 minutes later than my goal. I returned my videos, made a stop at the FP House to drop off more clothes and books, drove past my house one last time to see if the mail had arrived, and got on the Mass Pike around 1pm. I made good time, even in my overloaded car, and arrived at K's house in North Dartmouth a little after 3pm. It is truly astounding how easy it is to shed one life and move on to the next. I've slept and my body has recovered a bit, but my mind lags far behind, casting about for some purchase in this new beginning. I want to nestle back into the comfortable, stimulating, and surprising life I found in South Hadley for the past 3 years, but I am always aware that that specific time is over. Even the passage of a mere 2 days makes it impossible to go back. Man, that's heavy. So, here I am, in this familiar-but-strange in between time, wondering how much I'll be able to enjoy, and what lurks at the other end.

2007-05-22T16:52:00.000-04:00

Since I just harangued my friend for neglecting her blog, I thought I'd better post. I've been afraid to write anything in here after my last post because it turned out so maudlin and cliched. I don't know how to write or think about my life right now without sounding whiny or sentimental. Perhaps I should just accept my own whiny sentimentality and go with it.

Today I had my final therapy session with my current therapist. It was a good session and I was able to honestly say that I would miss her. I haven't always been sure about this therapist, but I think all in all we've done well together. I really felt the finality of the moment as I walked down the stairs for the last time. Having this ending made me recognize all the other endings I will be facing in the next week or so. I persist in feeling like this is just another end-of-term, followed by a vacation, then another semester. It is hard to grasp the fact that I'll be leaving this chapter of my life behind in all ways: physically, emotionally, intellectually. I have really enjoyed the community here in the Valley, even as I took it for granted almost all the time. It is daunting to think about creating a new community somewhere else, especially since I don't know where that will be. I should be getting better at doing this - I move with alarming frequency - but I don't feel any more comfortable with the prospect.

In an attempt to hammer home the reality of my situation, I decided to say goodbye to Mount Holyoke by revisiting every classroom I've inhabited, in order of habitation. I made it through the 2004/2005 slate and will continue the mission tomorrow. In Richard Linklater's fantastic pair of movies, Before Sunrise and Before Sunset, he employs this method of remembrance. At the end of the first movie, the camera alights on each place the two lovers have occupied, showing the locations empty in the light of day. At the beginning of the second movie, the camera moves to each place the lovers will inhabit through the course of the film. This practice of visiting places that have been or will be invested with meaning seems apt. As I physically occupy the spaces that have constituted the landscape of my Mount Holyoke career, I reoccupy the events and states of mind that took place inside those spaces. Sitting in the empty rooms, I am able to repopulate them and measure the distance between my past and present selves. As an exercise in self-conscious recreation, it's particularly effective. There is also something satisfyingly poignant about sitting alone in an empty classroom. Empty spaces easily fill with meaning and memory.

2007-05-15T00:49:00.000-04:00

This morning, at 9:50am, I completed the last final of my undergraduate career. It was a big moment, fittingly memorialized by my Biology professor, who gave me a firm handshake and a big smile. I walked out of Merrill 1 giddy, almost shaking with excitement and relief. I stopped at the pay phone outside the lecture hall to call Keith. No dial tone. I tried the other pay phone. No dial tone. So, being embedded firmly in the 21st century, I hied myself hence to the computer lab and emailed a select group of friends and family. After three years of rigorous undergraduate education at a fine institution, the only words I could find to express the gravity of my impending graduation were "Oh. My. God." Where would we be without Southern California?

I tried to find the perfect song, the perfect activity, the perfect words to adequately memorialize this occasion. Finally, I was forced to admit that nothing could be adequate. There's too much contained inside this momentous event. So, I bought a sandwich, returned my library books, and found some friends who are experiencing the same stage of their lives. We spent the rest of the day merrily not talking about it. We sat in the sun. We applied sunblock. We drank margaritas and Corona. We checked our mailboxes. We went out to dinner. And all the while a little drum beat inside my chest "Done. Done. Done. Done."

I have twelve days to dwell in this sweet in-between zone before Commencement pushes me out into the great blue yonder. I plan to spend them all.

2007-04-02T20:12:00.000-04:00

Studying for second Bio exam:
1. Did flight evolve because previously flightless animals fell out of trees? Or because previously flightless animals were jumping to catch insects in an "insect net" above the ground? These are two of the more popular theories on the evolution of flight. If only all of biology were this accessible...and this ridiculous.

2. Animals that have evolved to undertake most of their digestive processes in a hindgut often end up practicing coprophagy (eating of one's own feces) because the digestive process leaves lots of tasty bits intact.

3. Animals select the destination of nutrients. For example, red fish will allocate carotenoids to making themselves more red. Blue fish will use the same material to boost their immune systems.

4. Certain moths will emit a series of clicks to warn the bats that want to eat them that they are not tasty (or even poisonous). Isn't that sweet?

5. For many years, scientists have assumed that animals developed legs in order to crawl up on land from the water. Recently, newly discovered fossil evidence suggests that fish developed legs many millions of years before they made the transition to land. They might have used these legs to propel themselves to the surface of the water in order to breathe oxygen.

I am studying for bio in hopes that I will improve upon my abysmal average. Taking a science class has been extremely humbling for me and I am trying not to let my inadequacy in this subject pollute my success in other academic areas. It's tough. I feel like a failure!

2007-03-28T21:19:00.000-04:00

Things I'm Excited About This Week:
1. the stairs at the Natural History Museum at Amherst College
The rest of the museum is cool too, but the stairs are by far the best part. They are this amazing grey stone that is flecked with all kinds of intrusions and possibly fossils. I wanted to get down on my hands and knees to check them out, but was cognizant of presenting a potential hazard.

2. biology lab
I dread the lab every week and it brings out all my insecurities, phobias, and ornerisms, but it never fails to lift my spirits. My lab partner is a total kook - I both like and resist her more each week. The hands-on stuff is great and the martyr in me loves the fact that the lab is so damn long and arduous, even when it's fun.

3. my little room
I am quite depressed to be back in the House of Doom but I do love my little room. (Eat that, Emily Dickinson.) It's cozy and I have lots of pretty, homy, sentimental things. Plus, I have lots of books, a great bed, a cushy chair by the window, and several air-moving/purifying devices that make enough noise to drown out the fact that I live with two other people and a dog.

4. Henry James
What an insane man he is. "The Jolly House" is like some gothic horror story of the mind, like Freud trapped inside the rapidly firing neurons of his own brain.

5. self-pity mixed with self-aggrandizement
I am feeling sorry for myself for having to leave the amazing house/dog-sitting gig and simultaneously congratulating myself for doing such a fantastic job that Lee wrote me a very touching letter of thanks. There's nothing better for the neurotic, borderline depressive than this combination!

6. long-distance love
This situation fulfills some of the requirements stated above. I get to feel sorry for myself for being so far away from my love, while congratulating myself on the depth of my own feeling.

7. books, books, books
I found www.librarything.com, which lets me fill hours categorizing my books. I also joined an online non-book group started by my friend Sara, which allows me to publicize my reading habits and get great recommendations from the other members.

So, it's a pretty good week, even though it feels angsty and alarming. Spring Break was relaxing and full of warmth (even though it snowed twice) and it feels very vertiginous to be back in school, racing towards the finish line. What is next? everyone asks me and then we all cringe. I have three appealing summer plans, which should be a great circumstance, but instead leaves me feeling that I will disappoint someone no matter what I choose. And it feels impossible to figure out what I really want to do. I have to think that I will be able to choose when the time is right. If all the options are good ones, then how bad can the future possibly be?

2007-03-11T14:43:00.000-04:00

So much for my theory...

Obviously, I am not Born to Blog (TM).

2007-01-25T23:38:00.000-05:00

I'm totally in love with my own blog. I'm an autoblogophile. So now I am officially writing for my own self-gratification, which should result in more frequent entries. Four times a day, anyone?

It's Thursday and the Spring Semester starts on Monday. It's also my last semester at Mount Holyoke. My therapist keeps asking me how I feel about this (I've started bringing it up more frequently just to show her how gosh darn self-aware I am). Like most impending changes in my life, this one feels too unreal to provoke any anxiety, beyond the anxiety caused by thinking I ought to be anxious about it. I also know from experience that if I try to plan too much or push an agenda on myself, I will rebel and sabotage my own planning. My goal this semester is to ask for HELP from those around me, rather than attempting to take on the whole shebang by myself. That way, I will have accountability to external judges, not simply my own. Also, I will have to work on my issues about pleasing others instead of myself. And take 5 classes and dissect animals and conduct a long-distance relationship. Oh yeah, so do-able.

Today I bought school supplies and narrowly escaped buying all kinds of clothes and underwear I don't need. I think Target uses a combination of airborne GHB, subliminal aural seduction, and zany lighting to entice me into buying at least 5 more items than I intended to buy. Today, I actually took my overflowing basket to an empty aisle, took everything out one by one, and had a good talking-to-myself before I even approached the check out. This resulted in a savings of at least $20. Take that, Target-ers.

2006-07-18T16:45:00.000-04:00

I was gently berating my friend for not posting more frequently on her blog. Selfish of me, since I haven't posted since July 6th. I think my friend and I share a common ailment - the events and feelings of our lives feel at once too mundane and too complicated to explain. Sadness, malaise, ennui, SAD, depression, anxiety - whatever name you choose to give your overriding sense of wrongness-with-the-world, it makes blogging difficult. How should I choose words to describe something that I don't even understand, but which is so central to my being? It's like trying to describe breathing, or thinking, or feeling. Or the way the blood feels running through my veins, even while I am not aware of it.

I am drinking an iced coffee with a flavor shot of chocolate-mint, which was suggested to me by the overwhelmingly cute coffee-bar guy. As with all flavor shots, I am ambivalent about this one. I like the flavor, but not the icky sweetness that lingers on the palate, forcing one to take sip after sip in order to wash away the ickiness with another taste. I prefer straight coffee. But, gazing into coffee-bar-guy's eyes, I thought I'd give the flavor another shot.

2006-07-05T16:13:00.001-04:00

I don't know how to delete posts, so I am just erasing the text. Blogger was having hiccups yesterday and today I checked my blog to find my painful thoughts and inadequate words published in triplicate. Ouch.

2006-07-05T16:13:00.000-04:00

My heart and mind are so full lately. Last night, after a full day of 4th of July festivities, I lay in bed, sweltering and thinking about my life and myself. It felt very painful, shockingly rich, and somehow unfathomable to be lying there, in this body, in this consciousness, in this life. I thought about what I want - that thing that is always just beyond my reach. The unknowable seemed almost knowable for just a minute. The feeling passed - it was too big to carry for longer than a moment. But there are vestiges of it lingering in me today.
A fellow-student's daughter was killed over the weekend. My co-worker's uncle died suddenly yesterday. My boyfriend finally told his parents about his alcoholism. I had a talk with my dad on Monday and told him how I've missed our connection over the last few years. It seems to be a time burdened with too much life and too much death. I don't know where to put all of it. Is it all right to simply go about the day to day routine at a time like this? Can I do anything else? Coming to work feels like such a relief because I know where I will be and what I will be doing for 8 hours. I feel like a dog who wants to go sit in her crate because it is small and protected and known. The world out there is too big sometimes.

2006-06-28T15:45:00.000-04:00

3:39pm, Wednesday afternoon - the moment of truth. Making it past this moment means that the week will come predictably to an end, providing closure to another 5 days of meaningless, frustrating toil. My hyperbole makes me sounds much more disgruntled than I actually am, but who wants to hear about the minor disgruntlements of a fortunate daughter? Workers unite! (The first time I typed that, it read "Workers untie!" which may be more on my level.)

Discovery #1: Coffee made via the French press method is only superior if it is made from good coffee beans. Intensifying the flavor of Maxwell House does not serve the greater good. Good to the last drop, my foot.

I salvaged a grey metal box from the trash today. It makes me absurdly happy. It is square, about 6x6, and has little rubber feet on the bottom. It is perfect for treasures (and Latin flashcards).

My guilt about what I am not doing is growing apace with the heat, the mosquitoes, and my belly. Instead of working on my thesis project, practicing Latin, or enriching my mind in any way, I rush home to watch TV, read romance novels, and have rich meals with friends.

2006-06-23T12:54:00.000-04:00

I wish I knew a way to harness the energy of a particular conversation and keep it humming once the talk has ended. I suppose this is a reason to be in contact with other people. Somehow, it is never quite possible to generate the same friction alone. I guess Good Vibrations has been working on this problem for a while.

2006-06-22T11:13:00.000-04:00

I am interested in just about everything I read, when I read it. This is exciting and intellectually stimulating, but not very focused. As I am looking around for the perfect grad school, the perfect career, the perfect thesis topic, I find my multiplicity of interests (to use a sociological phrase) somewhat detrimental. Perhaps I am a true liberal art-ist, but is there any place to put that in this world? I know, I know, I'm supposed to create my own niche to fit me, rather than trying to fit myself into some prefab slot (eww). But how can I figure out what to do if it's never been done before? Or am I just looking in the wrong places?

I think my preoccupation with self and identity may be blinding me to alternate ways of living/being/doing. My friend was trying to articulate her philosophy to me, as philosophers will, and I kept getting hung up on the self. If we can only experience ourselves through an individual consciousness, how can we ever truly connect to an "other" or "others"? The more I think about this, the more I see my own limitations, perhaps stemming from an immature, or inexperienced, point of view. I don't really get how to connect to people, or to something "greater" than myself. Obviously, I am not affiliated with any religion - a position I've always worn as a badge of courage. But I wonder if I'm missing out on the big kahuna by refusing to connect to a spirituality. (Am I refusing? Does this imply that there is something to refuse?) I've always thought that I worshipped at the altar of the psyche, which is all well and good as an ironic intellectual position. However, it does not function as a worldly emotional recipe.

2006-06-21T13:23:00.000-04:00

I am experiencing blog envy. And Blogger's Remorse. I am convinced that my blog is inferior. Does it reveal too much without revealing anything substantive?

I spend a lot of time at work looking over my shoulder and startling, like a cat in a room full of invisible moths. If I were to perform actual work-related duties, my nerves would be able to settle. But I persist, like a modern-day Don(a) Quixote, tilting at windmills labeled "MySpace," "Facebook," "Blogger," "gmail," "hotmail," and "petersons.com". Oh yes, and my nemesis constantchatter.com. This display of utter disconnection with reality further convinces me that I am unsuited for the world. Do I really wish to spend my life in an ivory tower, jotting strange poems, and putting all my hopes into posthumous recognition? I would like to think that I truly want meaningful engagement with the world. How that would actually look remains to be seen.

2006-06-20T13:59:00.000-04:00

Typical archival request #1
The phone rings. It's an elderly woman, asking for Patty. I tell her Patty is on vacation and ask if there's any way I can help. She says "I sure hope so," in a dubious tone of voice. She wants to know if I can find out about a professor "Conlon" or "Condon" who taught in the Religion Dept in the mid-80s. I tell her I will look into it and call her back. I search every directory from 1980-1994. No luck. I search the Religion Dept files for that year range. No dice. I search the faculty bio files for anything starting with CO. Strike three. I call her back to let her know I haven't found anything. She can't hear me and we yell back and forth until she realizes she needs to switch phones. All this time, she is also yelling to someone else - a man, maybe her husband, who is there in the room with her. They decide that maybe the name is not "Conlon" or "Condon" but simply a 1-syllable name, and maybe he taught earlier than the mid-80s. Biting back my frustration, I offer to search again. I go through the directories from 1960-1990 and find an F. Benjamin Carr who taught in the Religion Dept from 1969-1974. I have a feeling he's the one. I pull his file, and while I'm at it, I pull the file of the caller, Gwen Glass. I call her back to give her the name. It's the right one. Her voice warms and she and the man in the background both sound happy. She thanks me. Turns out she's an alum who also served as Secretary of the College from 1973-89. She's a pistol.

This exchange is typical because it involves the 3 main ingredients of archival work: the frustration, the search, and the discovery of information and resultant connection. It's pretty cool, when it works out.

2006-06-19T13:58:00.000-04:00

My friend Corinne has inspired me to resuscitate my blog. Sadly, I find myself in a similar situation to last summer - working a job that requires little in the way of thinking, or even doing. I developed an instantaneous addiction to constantchatter.com last Friday. I will try to nip that one in the bud and constrain my chatter to this blog.

Goals for the summer include: checking out MassMoCA, finding a good swimming hole, reading a lot of sociological theory, exercising semi-regularly, and forcing others to cook-out with me. So far, I have made little to no progress on any of these things. However, I can report that I am much happier this year than I was last year at this time. Can it be enough for life to improve incrementally, invisibly, internally, rather than in a mad rush of external accomplishment?

I have 2 favorite blogs: A Traveler in the World of Work by roaster boy, an old friend of my father's, and Muddy-Footed Hill Troll by hilltroll, a dear friend of mine from CA. Check them out!

2005-07-20T12:16:00.000-04:00

The humidity finally broke today (84% yesterday). It is one of those perfect summer days that leads one to dream. Walking from my car to the sterile Science Center, I had a brief moment of euphoria, as images of beaches, green grass, picnics, and cool water flashed through my brain. My summer so far has held few of these things. However, anxiety, humidity, and lethargy have been in plentiful supply.

I was supposed to get a book out of the library for the Kenyan guy who delivers packages from DHL. Last week, he shyly but determinedly asked me if I could get Crime and Punishment for him.
I forgot. So, it's off to the library...

2005-07-15T12:20:00.000-04:00

Mayhap I am not cut out for this whole "blogging" endeavor.

Searching through random blogs during work, I found the infamous Maury Povich blog entry that led to hundreds of mistaken requests for Maury's time and advice. It was pretty hilarious - pretty sad, too. I am left wondering how Maury Povich became an all-healing god for so many people. When these people watch his show, are they filled with hope, because there are so many others out there with the same problems? I have always looked at Maury and his ilk as crass opportunists who glorify and feast on the pain of others. I've characterized the people who appear on the show as exploiting themselves for cash. Is there something else going on here? Is this modern ministry? Are people actually redeemed/saved/helped by Maury?

This train of thought leads to one of those rare occasions when I actually begin to perceive that other people think and behave in a way that is totally alien to me. I wonder what I'm missing.

I have a car now, which feels like blissful freedom. I am able to silence my pangs of guilt about pollution, lack of community, and the looming oil crisis by turning up the radio and rolling down the windows.

I forgot my book today, so I am consigned to hours of internet usage. I get bored with it and my eyes hurt. A book is much more comforting. Perhaps if I could hold the computer in my hands...?

I didn't have coffee this morning and it just about killed me. I finally asked my boss if I could run to the coffee shop at 11:30am. Ahh, sweet, sweet manna from heaven. Life seems infinitely rosier now.

2005-06-30T10:01:00.000-04:00

4 days have passed since my last post. I dreamed that someone posted a comment to my blog, encouraging me to write every day. The dream was positive, a good review. But, as usual, my unconscious has decided to save only the negative connotations, discarding the rest as chaff. So, I have the feeling I have disappointed my dream fan by not writing. These daily (hourly, minute-ly) struggles persist.

I have volunteered myself to coordinate an art show in November. I am petrified. I am unwilling to let myself be a beginner, to learn things as they come. I feel I should already know how to do this. It will be an interesting experience. This blog should be titled "Adventures of an Introvert in the Land of Extroverts".

One cannot underestimate the significance of the Myers-Briggs recipe.

I had one good day last week - balanced, peaceful, productive. Subsequently, the familiar restlessness-disguised-as-sloth returned. Luckily, but somewhat perversely, this state of being is comfortable and familiar to me. I am unsettled, not quite happy, but safe.

I feel suspended in my brain. My body is going through the motions, but my being is waiting. Since I cannot figure out my destiny, I will simply wait it out. But all the while, I will be expecting the big breakthrough. This expectation will keep me from experiencing peace or true rest. I want to know what will happen, what should happen. Some stubborn part of my psyche won't let go, even though I know it is futile to wait to know the future.

2005-06-24T12:55:00.000-04:00

Today I am besieged by insecurity. I have been visited by several people (not spirits, i think) today and wonder what they think of me, working 2.5 hours a day at this ridiculous job. My modifier says it all - they must think I'm ridiculous. How important is it to display ones talents?

My friend from Sonoma just sent me a link to an article about German mischief makers planting flags of President Bush in dog feces. It was gross, but not grosser than its inspiration.

Last night Keith and I visited a friend for a backyard firepit and ceremonial burning of school papers. It was enjoyable, in a low key sort of way. The chief pleasures of the experience for me, the one prone to social paralysis and discomfort, were the fireflies, the lightsticks, the ashy flaming feathers of burning paper, and the appearance of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, reminding me poignantly of other, more comfortable get togethers in the Bay Area. But, I digress. I began this vignette to tell about the awkwardness of politically themed conversations among almost-friends. The awkwardness paralyzes me, and I become cowardly and tense. I am strongly motivated by a sense that something precious rests on the opinions and beliefs of the people around me, and am therefore unable to participate in "mixed" conversations. Republicans, conservatives, even moderates seem desperately wrong to me. I am filled with missionary zeal, which makes for an uneasy bedfellow with my mellow liberal leanings. When I start feeling that some conservatives and evangelicals should be sterilized, haven't I turned into that which I despise?

2005-06-23T10:02:00.000-04:00

Long conversation last night about schooling. My neighbor's child is 5 and she is struggling with the constrictions of the public school system. In preschool, her child was encouraged follow the interest of the moment, create his own art, and write in any secret script he could imagine. Now, he is penalized for not rounding his "b", caught out for too much white space in his coloring book, and told that some of his efforts are merely "satisfactory" rather than amazing, astounding, and magnificent. Soon, he will be required to take the MCAS every year, further narrowing his concept of valuable knowledge.

This discussion turned into one about Mount Holyoke, where we both attend college as "non-traditional" (ie OLD) students. There is a peculiar phenomenon at MHC, though perhaps readers from other East Coast and East Coast-type schools will find it familiar. For the students here, an "A" is considered average. A "B" is something akin to failure, losing a limb, being condemned forever to a purgatory of temping and jobs at coffee shops. I am somewhat used to this culture of perfectionism, having attended private school and private boarding school all my life. However, after inhaling a dose of the "real" world over the past 10 years, I find it confusing and nerve-wracking to get sucked back into such a pervasive system. I can't tell to what degree the college, and its faculty and administrators, are complicit in this. Though I have not seen any blatant displays of expectation on their part, I feel they must be part of the problem. For instance, when one espies a small child running amok, one knows that their parent is somehow involved, either through direct encouragement or neglect. The women at this college, at the earliest stage of their adult development, have not created the cult of perfectionism themselves. They have inherited a rich (in all senses of the word) and full tradition. I am not impervious to it. As soon as I received "A"s, getting more of them became if not a focus, then a primary goal for my future college career.

I am teaching myself Greek over the summer, at least that is the plan. The issues stated in the above paragraph have influenced my summer study to a strong degree. Finding the motivation to study without benefit of grading, comparison with other students, and professorial expectation seems impossible. When did I get so far from my own goals and self-interest?

2005-06-22T13:44:00.000-04:00

I'm working an extremely sparse 10 hours per week in the Science Center stockroom. After checking my email for the hundredth time, desultorily reading The New Yorker, and lazily scanning my Classical Greek syllabus, I have decided to start this blog. Documenting one's inactivity minutely seems to justify it somehow.

I took a break from writing this blog (2 sentences was exhausting) and read a bit more New Yorker. In an article about a nomadic man preparing to raft across the Pacific Ocean, I found this quote: Like many people who behave capriciously, Neutrino believes that he acts only after much reflection. This reminded me of the reaction of most people to my story about moving to San Francisco. To them, it seems like a capricious act, and they confer upon it a sense of daring, excitement, and danger. In reality, I experienced the decision as the very end of a long period of gestation, like giving birth to another species after years of labor. The result was suprising, even to me, but the fact that something had to be born after all that work was undeniable, even pedestrian. Reflection does not always lead to external logic, but it inevitably gives birth to a product that resembles the internal structure of its mother. My move to San Francisco seemed inevitable to me, even though I had no previous stated intention to do so. Are there really people who live only through a process of external logic? For instance, they have a plan that applies to the world outside themselves, and then follow that plan?

Yesterday I had a related series of thoughts. I realized that the good, exciting, worthy events of my life feel extremely random to me. I do not have a sense of "deserving" them, of having to worked to reach them, of being "worthy" of them in and of myself. I have assumed that other people do not experience life this way - that others experience honors, diplomas, praise, and other such occurrences as following a strict internal and external logic. Yesterday it occurred to me that perhaps most lives seem similarly accidental to their owners. In fact, we probably do not "own" our lives the way we think we should. If no one really lives this way, then how did there come to be the myth of the consciously-lived life? How did we come to expect that we would follow a linear path to reward? Like so many other social myths, this one seems "true". I am still struggling with the recognition that adulthood is not a place to which I can travel, arriving in tact with all the amenities already in place.

My first inkling of the nebulous quality of adulthood came when I was promoted to Manager a few years ago. I was 26 or so, and felt in no way qualified to be Manager of anything. I finally realized that no one is really qualified for anything before they do it. Most adults stumble along the same way they did as children, but without the magical confidence of a child. Adults paste confidence on their skins, in the form of clothing, titles, diplomas, money, and other trappings. Adulthood is another myth. Personal growth takes many forms and never ends, but one can never get to adulthood. Pieces of it drift in and out of consciousness like particularly sneeze-inducing pollen.

Addendum: reading about Herman Kahn and post-WWII defense intellectuals in the New Yorker. Struck by this parallel (perhaps pedestrian, but new to me): trying to predict terrorism, Cold War retaliatory scenarios, or the movement of "the enemy" is akin to Phillip K. Dick's supposition about future crime. By eradicating possible horrors several steps ahead of the present, we destroy the possibility of change, hope, rehabilitation, interaction, capriciousness, etc. Since we cannot know with any certainty what the future holds, we attack it at our own peril, and at the peril of human society. Also, our modeling of the future tends to be based on the past and present, while the actual future often holds things we could never have imagined. Defense planning and strategy is inherently flawed.