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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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...

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.

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.

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?

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?

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.