Saturday, August 30, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Treadmill Confessional
I forgot to bring my headphones to the gym today. This may sound like a minor thing, but it has, in the past, sent me into minor fits of nerd rage. Do me a favor and don't ask QC about it. I'll deny anything she says. So, anyway, while I was doing my seven miles on the treadmill, in silence, I had time to do some thinking. (I should note that had there been anything on that I really wanted to see, I would have been irrationally fuming for much of this time.) For the most part, my thoughts revolved around two things:
First, my mental state. Or, at least, I tried to stay focused here. My attention kept slipping to number two in spite of all my best efforts, but in a little over an hour, I had more than enough concentration for both of them. I was speaking to a woman I know by loose association via the co-op and school. She just finished her MFA, for which I duly congratulated her, and I was attempting to commiserate with her about the job materials. Not the job prospects--since the idea of what happens after one sends out the applications seems entirely smoke and mirrors at this point--just the materials. She couldn't really join me because she landed a sweet gig teaching in the department from which she just graduated. Suffice it to say, she's going to be making just a titch more than the lucrative adjunct salary (2300/class). I was sort of moaning to her about it in the way that I do, aiming my comments at some chimeric combination of gallows humor and mild self-deprecation. With a perfectly cheerful face she responded that she was sure it would go well, especially since I had such a good attitude. She didn't sound sarcastic, but I can't fathom how she wasn't. She had to be, right? I was bitching and moaning, albeit humorously *i hope*. Remembering it, though, I still feel like an ass. Like without meaning to, I let myself become one of those black holes who spews stomach acid at anyone stupid enough to come too close. Something like the tiny jew who routinely digs her boney knees and chin into QC's psyche. And then I think, maybe she just didn't appreciate my humor? But, no, I was just repulsively negative.
So, post-realization. What now? This is where I admire the philosophy my Buddhist friends have embraced. While I still don't seem myself going down that path, for reasons I won't detail here, the Buddhist ideas of value and compassion are unsettlingly appropriate. Basically, my coping mechanism (aforementioned gallows humor/self-deprecation) isn't helping. What remains is for me to tread that delicate, treacherous tightrope that negotiates the hairline fracture separating outright panic from exhilaration, terror from excitement. Because, really, I should be excited about this next step. Excited to be finished with this stage of my life and moving on to whatever comes next. Thrilled that the coming years will take a shape that I can't foresee right now. The only thing I'm certain of is that something is going to change. In some important sense, it follows that I can choose this latter path rather than the former. I'm working on it. Fucking hard.
Second, the end of Breaking Dawn, the fourth book of the Twilight series by Mormon vampire writer Stephenie Meyer. These books have made quite a splash, as you probably all know. I was introduced by a girl I work with who claims to have read all of them many times (with the exception of BD, doubtless, because it just came out). I read on the SLOG, *sigh, how I love thee* that a huge portion of the fanbase is pissed as hell about this last book. Even the girl I work with told me she found the ending to be weird and abrupt. There's a petition online with hundreds of signatures damning the book. Check it out. I'm not sure why people are so surprised by this book. It seems, in many ways, where the "saga" was headed all along. I also think that many of the weirdnesses and the abruptness of the ending is traceable to the author's disinclination (or lack of a hand?) for writing action sequences. She practically avoids them at all costs, and it makes for some odd narrative turns. She spends a loooong time setting up the conflict and ten pages resolving it. Happy happy, the end. So? And, really, people upset with the conservatism of the text? At least BD had sex (nothing pre-marital, mind you), pain, and one of the goriest baby deliveries evah. (think broken bones and fountains of blood) My point? All the books are conservative, largely; she quotes Orson Scott Card for fuck's sake. Still, it was lovely reading. Like high fructose corn syrup for my brain, with the ensuing nasty sugar smell and lethargy.
First, my mental state. Or, at least, I tried to stay focused here. My attention kept slipping to number two in spite of all my best efforts, but in a little over an hour, I had more than enough concentration for both of them. I was speaking to a woman I know by loose association via the co-op and school. She just finished her MFA, for which I duly congratulated her, and I was attempting to commiserate with her about the job materials. Not the job prospects--since the idea of what happens after one sends out the applications seems entirely smoke and mirrors at this point--just the materials. She couldn't really join me because she landed a sweet gig teaching in the department from which she just graduated. Suffice it to say, she's going to be making just a titch more than the lucrative adjunct salary (2300/class). I was sort of moaning to her about it in the way that I do, aiming my comments at some chimeric combination of gallows humor and mild self-deprecation. With a perfectly cheerful face she responded that she was sure it would go well, especially since I had such a good attitude. She didn't sound sarcastic, but I can't fathom how she wasn't. She had to be, right? I was bitching and moaning, albeit humorously *i hope*. Remembering it, though, I still feel like an ass. Like without meaning to, I let myself become one of those black holes who spews stomach acid at anyone stupid enough to come too close. Something like the tiny jew who routinely digs her boney knees and chin into QC's psyche. And then I think, maybe she just didn't appreciate my humor? But, no, I was just repulsively negative.
So, post-realization. What now? This is where I admire the philosophy my Buddhist friends have embraced. While I still don't seem myself going down that path, for reasons I won't detail here, the Buddhist ideas of value and compassion are unsettlingly appropriate. Basically, my coping mechanism (aforementioned gallows humor/self-deprecation) isn't helping. What remains is for me to tread that delicate, treacherous tightrope that negotiates the hairline fracture separating outright panic from exhilaration, terror from excitement. Because, really, I should be excited about this next step. Excited to be finished with this stage of my life and moving on to whatever comes next. Thrilled that the coming years will take a shape that I can't foresee right now. The only thing I'm certain of is that something is going to change. In some important sense, it follows that I can choose this latter path rather than the former. I'm working on it. Fucking hard.
Second, the end of Breaking Dawn, the fourth book of the Twilight series by Mormon vampire writer Stephenie Meyer. These books have made quite a splash, as you probably all know. I was introduced by a girl I work with who claims to have read all of them many times (with the exception of BD, doubtless, because it just came out). I read on the SLOG, *sigh, how I love thee* that a huge portion of the fanbase is pissed as hell about this last book. Even the girl I work with told me she found the ending to be weird and abrupt. There's a petition online with hundreds of signatures damning the book. Check it out. I'm not sure why people are so surprised by this book. It seems, in many ways, where the "saga" was headed all along. I also think that many of the weirdnesses and the abruptness of the ending is traceable to the author's disinclination (or lack of a hand?) for writing action sequences. She practically avoids them at all costs, and it makes for some odd narrative turns. She spends a loooong time setting up the conflict and ten pages resolving it. Happy happy, the end. So? And, really, people upset with the conservatism of the text? At least BD had sex (nothing pre-marital, mind you), pain, and one of the goriest baby deliveries evah. (think broken bones and fountains of blood) My point? All the books are conservative, largely; she quotes Orson Scott Card for fuck's sake. Still, it was lovely reading. Like high fructose corn syrup for my brain, with the ensuing nasty sugar smell and lethargy.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
More New Favorite Things
These are the side benefits of spending long hours staring at my own writing while outside the sun is shining, birds chirping, and so forth. I assuage my desire to tear my hair out in bloody handfuls by surfing the internet. It's a measured reward. Whenever I get past five pages, I get to spend a few minutes clicking and browsing. Finding new and interesting webpages is like heaven after staring for ten minutes at a paragraph that simply isn't doing what it needs to do. Or agonizing over whether or not an additional source, which one of my committee members tells me I need to deal with, has to be integrated *somehow* into the body of the text or whether I can tuck it away into a tidy footnote. God, I love footnotes. Never thought I'd say that.
No other news, really. As per usual, just my whineyness, checking in now and again. I am mildly excited about making cupcakes for a co-workers upcoming birthday. I'm mulling it over a bit, since this is finally an opportunity to make something other than the Mexican Hot Chocolate. I'm thinking seriously about Bittersweet's Root Beer Float cupcakes. I considered the chocolate stout cupcakes, but I must own up to a slight prejudice against the whole crumb topping thing. I really feel, in some control freaky place in my head, that cupcakes should be covered in mounds of creamy lusciousness. I can't help it. I feel that way. If I can't find any of this ridiculous substance called root beer extract, though, I'm shit out of luck. I'll have to regroup.
Before I get too out of control, I give you the following awesomenesses.
The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotations.
Just what it sounds like. "Quotations": They're not for "emphasis."
Contrariwise: A blog devoted to literary tattoos!
Lovely and, oddly, inspiring. I've been thinking about something like this for myself. Not the same poem, of course. And not on my back. I am surprised, though, at how many of these tattoos are the same. Lots of Plath (I am I am I am), Vonnegut (everything was beautiful and nothing hurt), and Cummings. Who knew?
I have to fess, though, I found this via Slog, like everything else. The slogger, I don't remember who it was, was particularly fond of this one:
Now, if you need me, I'll be over here feeling sorry for myself.
No other news, really. As per usual, just my whineyness, checking in now and again. I am mildly excited about making cupcakes for a co-workers upcoming birthday. I'm mulling it over a bit, since this is finally an opportunity to make something other than the Mexican Hot Chocolate. I'm thinking seriously about Bittersweet's Root Beer Float cupcakes. I considered the chocolate stout cupcakes, but I must own up to a slight prejudice against the whole crumb topping thing. I really feel, in some control freaky place in my head, that cupcakes should be covered in mounds of creamy lusciousness. I can't help it. I feel that way. If I can't find any of this ridiculous substance called root beer extract, though, I'm shit out of luck. I'll have to regroup.
Before I get too out of control, I give you the following awesomenesses.
The "Blog" of "Unnecessary" Quotations.
Just what it sounds like. "Quotations": They're not for "emphasis."
Contrariwise: A blog devoted to literary tattoos!
Lovely and, oddly, inspiring. I've been thinking about something like this for myself. Not the same poem, of course. And not on my back. I am surprised, though, at how many of these tattoos are the same. Lots of Plath (I am I am I am), Vonnegut (everything was beautiful and nothing hurt), and Cummings. Who knew?
I have to fess, though, I found this via Slog, like everything else. The slogger, I don't remember who it was, was particularly fond of this one:
Now, if you need me, I'll be over here feeling sorry for myself.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Oh My Gawd
Rock of Love 3. Yes, they did.
So things didn't work out with Ambre. Nobody's really surprised. I think I even heard that New York and Tailor Made broke up, of all the absurdities. But seriously, season 3 promises all the glorious, trashy insanity of the first two seasons plus that key ingredient that will make it all fresh and new and so so much worse: claustrophobia! I can't wait. When the hell is Tila's third season going to be announced?
Three seasons has to be the death knell. Flavor Flav has pioneered all this nonsense, and I doubt anyone will be giving that poor bastard a fourth season. Right? I'm not sure what logic this is, but there does seem to be one.
In other news, I'm currently immersed in different levels of revisions on my third, fourth, and fifth chapters. I haven't yet summoned the nerve to look at my conclusion. It's amazing to be at this stage, though, and I'm even feeling waves of something I can only describe as elation. Even if I don't get a job this year, at least I'll be done. With this project. (Cue the hysterical laughter.)
How will Bret find a woman to ‘rock his world’ when his world is always moving? VH1 is loading up a tour bus filled with beautiful babes and taking them on tour across the country. Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels takes contestants out of the mansion and on the road in true rock star style. This season will feature all-new ladies vying for Bret’s affection while traveling across America following Bret on a month-long tour. The contestants will face new challenges to see if they can handle the rock star life on the road.
This time as the bus pulls into each new city, the girls will engage in challenges specifically revolving around Bret’s life on the road. Whether it’s greeting aggressive groupies with a smile, enduring grueling schedules, dodging the advances of the warm-up band or even stepping in last-minute to fill in for delinquent roadies – these girls will be put to the test. This season, as the Rock of Love Bus heads into America’s heartland, the show will be taking the viewer to a whole new level with crazy, fun, over-the-top challenges- imagine Truck Stop Olympics or a dance contest on top of the St. Louis Arch or even a BBQ cook-off beneath the World’s Largest Thermometer. And also, back by popular demand…Mud Bowl 3. Americana at it’s finest!
So things didn't work out with Ambre. Nobody's really surprised. I think I even heard that New York and Tailor Made broke up, of all the absurdities. But seriously, season 3 promises all the glorious, trashy insanity of the first two seasons plus that key ingredient that will make it all fresh and new and so so much worse: claustrophobia! I can't wait. When the hell is Tila's third season going to be announced?
Three seasons has to be the death knell. Flavor Flav has pioneered all this nonsense, and I doubt anyone will be giving that poor bastard a fourth season. Right? I'm not sure what logic this is, but there does seem to be one.
In other news, I'm currently immersed in different levels of revisions on my third, fourth, and fifth chapters. I haven't yet summoned the nerve to look at my conclusion. It's amazing to be at this stage, though, and I'm even feeling waves of something I can only describe as elation. Even if I don't get a job this year, at least I'll be done. With this project. (Cue the hysterical laughter.)
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
New Favorite Thing
Deliciously wicked photos by Joshua Hoffine. Check out his website for many many more. Click the first image to enter, obviously. Via Michael Strangeways.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Birthing Pains
Ugh. I've had the worst writing week trying to crank out my conclusion. Who knew this bloody thing would be so fucking difficult to write? I spent two or three days hammering away at it very slowly (and between shifts), and I only managed to produce about eleven pages that I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to use. I went to work very much on edge yesterday, and vented (with much restraint) my frustrations to one of my co-workers. Poor guy. He responded initially by saying, "Oh, yeah, that's like, the most important part of your dissertation, right?" When I was like "Ahhhhhhh!" he changed tactics and said, "Oh, yeah, nobody will read it anyway." "Ahhhhhhh!" Like I said, poor guy. Seriously, though, I hope neither of those things is true. At least I need to believe that right now.
Anyway, so today I screwed myself up to try again. I sat down and started writing the thing from the beginning. Between 9 and 3 (with a break in there to take C to the mechanics and eat lunch with her) I wrote sixteen pages. Now I'm as done as I can be for the time and very much desirous of a reward of some sort. So far, I've decided to skip pilates, since I'm not feeling it today and ran eight miles yesterday. (On a side note, I didn't really intend to. It just so happened that the jerks at vh1 decided to get the maximum mileage out of the first episode of the new reality tv show, "I Love Money" and stretch the bloody thing out to 1 1/2 hours with loads upon loads of commercial breaks. So, of course, I ran the whole time. And, yeah, today, I'm not feeling it. If it doesn't make me too sweaty, I might flounder around on the living room floor for a while doing some of the moves that like best/find the most difficult. C is suffering through sad tv movies, so whatever I do, I can't be very disruptive.
Other things I'm considering: 1) Driving to Weggies for some more of the Purely Decadent Coconut Ice Cream. This time I'd get the cookie dough flavor, because I'm fat like that. Last time I got the Mint Chocolate Chip, because C's fat like that. 2) Hunting for a pastry blender. I dearly want one and have vowed not to make any more recipes which involve cutting fat into flour until I have an adequate one in my possession. So far, I've only really looked at Target, and the ones there looked very chintzy indeed. I want one that can really cut the cold cold vegan margarine (not room temperature, because, as we all know, pastry is all about coldness. We do all know that, right?) into flour. I feel like getting a substandard one would be like buying it just to throw it away. In the interest of full disclosure, I should add that I have some serious cherry pie on the brain. I made a pie a week or so ago that was quite good, but not perfect. And now I have the need to try again using the sour cherries that are newly in season. Farmer's Market. Saturday. Here I come. The pie crust, incidentally, and not that anyone cares, is the kind made with vodka and ice water. The idea here, which I would have appreciated more fully if I hadn't kind of fucked it up by preparing the fruit too early, is that the vodka evaporates during cooking eliminating forever the problem of the gummy pie crust. Exciting right? 3) Cleaning the fridge. The only good thing about this is that I don't have to drive to do it, and it fills up some of the time between now and when I can have a glass of tequila without feeling...strange. 4) Calling my mom. I'm going to do this for sure, and it has the advantage of fulfilling part of the requirements of number 3. While I decide, check out this pie via www.thenibble.com.
Anyway, so today I screwed myself up to try again. I sat down and started writing the thing from the beginning. Between 9 and 3 (with a break in there to take C to the mechanics and eat lunch with her) I wrote sixteen pages. Now I'm as done as I can be for the time and very much desirous of a reward of some sort. So far, I've decided to skip pilates, since I'm not feeling it today and ran eight miles yesterday. (On a side note, I didn't really intend to. It just so happened that the jerks at vh1 decided to get the maximum mileage out of the first episode of the new reality tv show, "I Love Money" and stretch the bloody thing out to 1 1/2 hours with loads upon loads of commercial breaks. So, of course, I ran the whole time. And, yeah, today, I'm not feeling it. If it doesn't make me too sweaty, I might flounder around on the living room floor for a while doing some of the moves that like best/find the most difficult. C is suffering through sad tv movies, so whatever I do, I can't be very disruptive.
Other things I'm considering: 1) Driving to Weggies for some more of the Purely Decadent Coconut Ice Cream. This time I'd get the cookie dough flavor, because I'm fat like that. Last time I got the Mint Chocolate Chip, because C's fat like that. 2) Hunting for a pastry blender. I dearly want one and have vowed not to make any more recipes which involve cutting fat into flour until I have an adequate one in my possession. So far, I've only really looked at Target, and the ones there looked very chintzy indeed. I want one that can really cut the cold cold vegan margarine (not room temperature, because, as we all know, pastry is all about coldness. We do all know that, right?) into flour. I feel like getting a substandard one would be like buying it just to throw it away. In the interest of full disclosure, I should add that I have some serious cherry pie on the brain. I made a pie a week or so ago that was quite good, but not perfect. And now I have the need to try again using the sour cherries that are newly in season. Farmer's Market. Saturday. Here I come. The pie crust, incidentally, and not that anyone cares, is the kind made with vodka and ice water. The idea here, which I would have appreciated more fully if I hadn't kind of fucked it up by preparing the fruit too early, is that the vodka evaporates during cooking eliminating forever the problem of the gummy pie crust. Exciting right? 3) Cleaning the fridge. The only good thing about this is that I don't have to drive to do it, and it fills up some of the time between now and when I can have a glass of tequila without feeling...strange. 4) Calling my mom. I'm going to do this for sure, and it has the advantage of fulfilling part of the requirements of number 3. While I decide, check out this pie via www.thenibble.com.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
