It's been a tough few months for writing.
I thought i had an artist for my comic book, but she's realized she's too busy to commit to this project and has gracefully backed out. I'm not mad at her or anything, and i completely understand (and was half-expecting) her refusal, but it's still really disappointing.
My workshop group hasn't met in ages. We kept getting delayed by various things: work commitments, school, migraines, lack of new things to review, weather disasters, holidays, and so on and so forth. I really miss that weekly gathering of creative intellectuals, as well as the motivation of a deadline.
I found a journal of women's environmental poetry that was looking specifically for prose poems, and i was all geared up to send them a submission, when i realized there was a reading fee to do so. Never send out anything you have to pay for; there's no guarantee of publication, and there are plenty of places that are more than happy to reject you for free. Hypothetically.
There's a lot of really emotional stuff happening for me right now, but it's happening right now, so it's hard to write about it clearly.
Since discovering Netflix, i'm much less inclined to sit reading or writing in the evenings, and much more inclined to knit and binge-watch Dr. Who. Which, while good for my knitting projects, is bad for my writing.
But.
Two of my roommates have moved out, and have been replaced by only one person. And it is absolutely worth the $100/month increase in rent to reclaim a little more peace, stability, and room in the house. We are hanging superhero posters in the hallway and organizing a library/bar/office in the corner room. The one with roof access.
I've been living in a nest for two years because i was too afraid to put my things in the house, because of what might happen to them. There also wasn't a lot of room, with four people crammed into a three-bedroom apartment. Now i'm de-cluttering my room and living like a human adult, instead of a magpie. My desk is in the library bar, in front of a window, with elephants and pictures of Boyfriend and Christina Hendricks for inspiration.
I have a shiny new phone that i mostly don't hate. (I've been resisting the smartphone upgrade since the debut of the Blackberry, but there's no escape now. The Samsung Galaxy Stellar, however, isn't terrible. If i have to have a smartphone, i'm glad i got this one.)
I have a nerdy friend who is going with me to the Neil Gaiman reading and signing this weekend. I am going to the Neil Gaiman reading and signing this weekend.
I have another nerdy friend who wants to have a sewing and cooking and drinking date with me soon. I'm really excited at the prospect of getting back into sewing.
I have a sexy, smart, caring, wonderfully weird boyfriend who snuggles me and is patient with me and goes on adventures with me and helped me make sangria last week. (My sangria recipe is amazing, by the way. I'll have to post it some time.) Sometimes i write terribly sappy poems about him and then send them to him through snail mail. Isn't that so cute you want to vomit?
I have, like, six different jars of fancy honey in my kitchen waiting for me to eat them. I also have an ice cream maker. I see honey-sweetened ice cream in my future.
I have Netflix! And tons of yarn! And, currently, not a lot going on in my life! This equals SWEATERS!!! It doesn't get much better than handmade sweaters in New England. (Unless, of course, it's July and they keep posting heat advisories. But i'll be glad of them in the winter, which is probably when they'll be finished, anyway.)
I have an awesome tattoo idea that will, someday, when i have money again (when i die), be an awesome tattoo.
I got fan-ish mail yesterday.
My cat is super cute.
Showing posts with label not having a life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label not having a life. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Emily Angelou? Maya Dickinson? Emilya Dickelou? Mayily Angeson?
A few nights ago, my boyfriend and i were getting ready for bed, and he asked me to tell him a story. He does that from time to time, and it never goes well; i'm not good at spontaneous story-telling, and anyway i mostly write non-narrative poems, so it's completely out of my wheelhouse. So i always ask him what kind of story he wants, and he always says, "I don't know; you're the writer," and then i tell him that i don't do that kind of writing, and then he whines, and then i snuggle him to sleep.
But the most recent time, when i asked him what kind of story he wanted, he said, "One that would make a lot of money."
I laughed. "If i had a story that would make a lot of money, don't you think i would have sold it by now?"
"No, because you write poetry," he countered.
Ignoring the irony embodied in his own words, i had a flashback to senior year. In our senior seminar class, we had an assignment designed to make us seriously consider our career prospects as English majors. (Hint: they are not bright.) Those of us on the Creative Writing track had to research the market, look at publishing houses and magazines and journals and calls for submissions and find out what was profitable, what our demographic was, what our chances were for success. There were four graduating English seniors that year: two Literary Analysis, one Creative Writing (fiction), and one Creative Writing (poetry). The fiction writer was writing a Christian teen romance novel which will almost certainly sell. I thought it was okay: fluffy beach fiction with structurally sound but stylistically flat writing. But that hasn't gotten in anyone else's way, so she has a good shot. Anyway, when it was my turn to talk about success in the poetry field, the professor called in some other experts.
So we sat there, me and Beach Fiction and the two Literary Analysts, and Benji and McCann (published poets, both), and KP, and we talked about what it means to be a successful poet.
"Emily Dickinson never published anything in her life," McCann pointed out.
"And Maya Angelou made a million dollars last year because she sold out to work for Hallmark," Benji added.
Then there was a debate about Maya Angelou, and whether her more popular, money-making poetry was as good as her earlier work, and whether any of it was as good as Emily Dickinson's work, and whether either of them would be read in another fifty or a hundred years, and does success as a poet mean that you get published and are famous in your own time, or that you're still read after your death, or both? Or what if you never get the recognition you deserve, but you're still talented and you feel good about your body of work? What does it mean to be a successful poet?
I've been looking at submission calls again lately and getting depressed. It's hard and scary and heartbreaking and awkward and forward to just send people your poems and ask to get them published. And what's the upside? You get published and then you have to start sending things out again? You get a ten dollar check and a free magazine and you can't tell anyone about it because the poem they picked is the one where you yell at your mom or the one about the time you had to buy Plan B? You get published and then some other random publication actually asks you for work and then you have to find something that's polished and ready to go? And then you've published all of your stuff and then you have to write more? And what if you only had ten good poems in you and then you've sent them all out and then you're faced with the inevitable truth that you suck, that that part of your life is over, that you'll spend the rest of your life showing visitors the laminated magazine page with your poem on it and serving people coffee? You send out a submission packet and promptly die of embarrassment and anxiety?
Still, my workshop requires me to turn things in every week for review. And when i'm applying for English teacher jobs, it looks good if i have some publishing credits on my résumé. And knowing is better than not knowing. And even ten bucks is better than nothing. And who knows? Maybe i'll be some kind of Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover: an introverted white lady who doesn't title her poems and makes some money off of them while she's still alive. Okay, so i guess that's less of a Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover and more of a Profitable Emily Dickinson, but whatever.
But the most recent time, when i asked him what kind of story he wanted, he said, "One that would make a lot of money."
I laughed. "If i had a story that would make a lot of money, don't you think i would have sold it by now?"
"No, because you write poetry," he countered.
Ignoring the irony embodied in his own words, i had a flashback to senior year. In our senior seminar class, we had an assignment designed to make us seriously consider our career prospects as English majors. (Hint: they are not bright.) Those of us on the Creative Writing track had to research the market, look at publishing houses and magazines and journals and calls for submissions and find out what was profitable, what our demographic was, what our chances were for success. There were four graduating English seniors that year: two Literary Analysis, one Creative Writing (fiction), and one Creative Writing (poetry). The fiction writer was writing a Christian teen romance novel which will almost certainly sell. I thought it was okay: fluffy beach fiction with structurally sound but stylistically flat writing. But that hasn't gotten in anyone else's way, so she has a good shot. Anyway, when it was my turn to talk about success in the poetry field, the professor called in some other experts.
So we sat there, me and Beach Fiction and the two Literary Analysts, and Benji and McCann (published poets, both), and KP, and we talked about what it means to be a successful poet.
"Emily Dickinson never published anything in her life," McCann pointed out.
"And Maya Angelou made a million dollars last year because she sold out to work for Hallmark," Benji added.
Then there was a debate about Maya Angelou, and whether her more popular, money-making poetry was as good as her earlier work, and whether any of it was as good as Emily Dickinson's work, and whether either of them would be read in another fifty or a hundred years, and does success as a poet mean that you get published and are famous in your own time, or that you're still read after your death, or both? Or what if you never get the recognition you deserve, but you're still talented and you feel good about your body of work? What does it mean to be a successful poet?
I've been looking at submission calls again lately and getting depressed. It's hard and scary and heartbreaking and awkward and forward to just send people your poems and ask to get them published. And what's the upside? You get published and then you have to start sending things out again? You get a ten dollar check and a free magazine and you can't tell anyone about it because the poem they picked is the one where you yell at your mom or the one about the time you had to buy Plan B? You get published and then some other random publication actually asks you for work and then you have to find something that's polished and ready to go? And then you've published all of your stuff and then you have to write more? And what if you only had ten good poems in you and then you've sent them all out and then you're faced with the inevitable truth that you suck, that that part of your life is over, that you'll spend the rest of your life showing visitors the laminated magazine page with your poem on it and serving people coffee? You send out a submission packet and promptly die of embarrassment and anxiety?
Still, my workshop requires me to turn things in every week for review. And when i'm applying for English teacher jobs, it looks good if i have some publishing credits on my résumé. And knowing is better than not knowing. And even ten bucks is better than nothing. And who knows? Maybe i'll be some kind of Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover: an introverted white lady who doesn't title her poems and makes some money off of them while she's still alive. Okay, so i guess that's less of a Maya Angelou/Emily Dickinson crossover and more of a Profitable Emily Dickinson, but whatever.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
23
In my apartment, birthdays are extravagant affairs. You can expect anywhere between 30 and 100 people to show up. The agenda is simple: get drunk, get drunker, play drinking games, drink. The more the merrier, since more people = more booze, which makes for more hilarity and crazy pictures and stories for the next day. Plus, you might get laid. Open invitations are issued, and friends-of-friends think nothing of showing up with three of their own friends. It's all a little overwhelming for an introvert, and i usually stay long enough to get a buzz before disappearing to my own bedroom, or my boyfriend's apartment, or a deserted corner of the porch.
I don't really do birthday parties for myself. When i was younger, my mom helped me organize and plan parties; i remember an American Girl Doll party complete with tea and games. She suggested people for me to invite, hoping both to make other girls feel included and, i think, to get me out of my shell a little. But as i grew older and more autonomous (and more socially anxious), i invited fewer and fewer people and became less and less enthusiastic about the prospect of a party with me as the main focus. My best friends and i got together for a party at least once a month, and there were never more than six people involved. Because the parties were regular and rotated in location, and because they were organized around the Orange and Blu Kidz Club (a whole series of blog posts there), no one person was ever the center of attention. These were fun, and made the transition to birthday time easy: i invited the same group of people, hosted everyone at my house, and the only difference between that and our normal monthly meetings was that everyone brought me a gift.
My last real party was when i was fifteen. I had expanded the group slightly, and although there were no guests that i hadn't known for at least five years, i was painfully anxious and uncomfortable for the whole evening. The planning and preparation was exhausting, even for such a simple party, and the things i wanted to do were drastically different from the things other girls my age enjoyed, leaving me with an awkward choice to make: please myself and bore everyone else, or turn my own birthday party into a party for other people and leave myself sad and bored and slightly resentful? I settled on a compromise that mostly worked, but that was the last time i had any enthusiasm for a birthday party, and the events of my 21st birthday cemented those feelings pretty firmly.
But this year, i decided i was ready for another party-type thing. My initial thought was to schedule it somewhere away from my house, so that when i was ready for everyone to go away i could just go home. So i picked a restaurant (Mr. Bartley's Burger Cottage; visit if you're ever in Boston!), sketched out a preliminary guest list, and picked a date. Then i got ambitious.
We will be going to Bartley's, and then perhaps we will shop for books (the Harvard bookstore is right next to Bartley's; have i mentioned how much i love Boston?), and then back to my house for Cards Against Humanity. There are a few people that i invited out of obligation, but most of them are unable to come. I created a Facebook event for it and made it closed and invite only to keep it manageable, and then started sending out invites.
I was astonished to realize that there are now more than ten people that i really want to spend an evening with. In fact, there are more than fifteen people that i would like to invite, but some of them live too far away to attend. It is astonishing to me to realize that i like that many people enough to want to spend an evening with them in my home. I never anticipated being that sociable, even in high school, when i so desperately wanted to be different than i was. I never thought i could worry about finding enough seats for everyone in my apartment. I never imagined being sad that more than five people lived too far to invite, while simultaneously being glad that two-thirds of my best-loved ones would attend.
I guess what i'm saying is, this level of personal growth combined with the staggering number of good friends is such a wonderful gift already, and y'all damn well better give me something pretty anyway. It's my birthday, bitches.
I don't really do birthday parties for myself. When i was younger, my mom helped me organize and plan parties; i remember an American Girl Doll party complete with tea and games. She suggested people for me to invite, hoping both to make other girls feel included and, i think, to get me out of my shell a little. But as i grew older and more autonomous (and more socially anxious), i invited fewer and fewer people and became less and less enthusiastic about the prospect of a party with me as the main focus. My best friends and i got together for a party at least once a month, and there were never more than six people involved. Because the parties were regular and rotated in location, and because they were organized around the Orange and Blu Kidz Club (a whole series of blog posts there), no one person was ever the center of attention. These were fun, and made the transition to birthday time easy: i invited the same group of people, hosted everyone at my house, and the only difference between that and our normal monthly meetings was that everyone brought me a gift.
My last real party was when i was fifteen. I had expanded the group slightly, and although there were no guests that i hadn't known for at least five years, i was painfully anxious and uncomfortable for the whole evening. The planning and preparation was exhausting, even for such a simple party, and the things i wanted to do were drastically different from the things other girls my age enjoyed, leaving me with an awkward choice to make: please myself and bore everyone else, or turn my own birthday party into a party for other people and leave myself sad and bored and slightly resentful? I settled on a compromise that mostly worked, but that was the last time i had any enthusiasm for a birthday party, and the events of my 21st birthday cemented those feelings pretty firmly.
But this year, i decided i was ready for another party-type thing. My initial thought was to schedule it somewhere away from my house, so that when i was ready for everyone to go away i could just go home. So i picked a restaurant (Mr. Bartley's Burger Cottage; visit if you're ever in Boston!), sketched out a preliminary guest list, and picked a date. Then i got ambitious.
We will be going to Bartley's, and then perhaps we will shop for books (the Harvard bookstore is right next to Bartley's; have i mentioned how much i love Boston?), and then back to my house for Cards Against Humanity. There are a few people that i invited out of obligation, but most of them are unable to come. I created a Facebook event for it and made it closed and invite only to keep it manageable, and then started sending out invites.
I was astonished to realize that there are now more than ten people that i really want to spend an evening with. In fact, there are more than fifteen people that i would like to invite, but some of them live too far away to attend. It is astonishing to me to realize that i like that many people enough to want to spend an evening with them in my home. I never anticipated being that sociable, even in high school, when i so desperately wanted to be different than i was. I never thought i could worry about finding enough seats for everyone in my apartment. I never imagined being sad that more than five people lived too far to invite, while simultaneously being glad that two-thirds of my best-loved ones would attend.
I guess what i'm saying is, this level of personal growth combined with the staggering number of good friends is such a wonderful gift already, and y'all damn well better give me something pretty anyway. It's my birthday, bitches.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
oh hey
So. Um.
Posting has been a little erratic lately. I do know that. Sorry.
All i can really say is that i've been so busy actually doing things that i have no time to write about them. I'll give you guys a quick synopsis of the past month and a half, and then we'll call it even, k?
So, in October, one of my best friends married her best friend, and i was a bridesmaid. So Boyfriend and i took a train, which arrived in Philly at 4:30 am, and then we waited for the rental car place to open. Then when it did, they apparently required a deposit (which they had not told us when we made the reservation and which he has never had to pay before when he has rented a car), and since he didn't have enough money in his account to cover the whole thing, his card was declined. So he made some angry phone calls, and i pulled out my iPad and transferred some money from my savings account and paid for the rental car. Then we went out to the parking lot, and our car was blocked in by three other cars. We called the office to ask them to move it, and then sat there for twenty minutes waiting. Finally, someone came out and walked around the three cars blocking us, looking confused, until Boyfriend got out and said, "Hey, can you move one of these cars so we can get out?" The guy looked more confused. Apparently, the office had told him to move a car, but not which car or why they needed it moved. Another ten minutes went by before we could leave. We slept at the hotel for a few hours, and then went to set up the church/rehearse/have the rehearsal dinner. Then the other bridesmaids and i stayed at the bride's parents' house. Then the wedding, and then the reception, and then Boyfriend and i went back to our hotel and passed out, exhausted. We checked out early the next morning, because our train left at 7:30. The rental car place wasn't open, and the gate to get into the rental lot wouldn't open, so we had to leave the car in the regular parking garage. A few hours later, when we were on the train, we got a rude phone call from the office, demanding to know where the car was. The story ends with Boyfriend writing an angry letter to the rental company.
The following weekend, we went to see Ingrid Michaelson on her acoustic tour with Katie Herzig. It was honestly one of the best shows i have ever seen. Both ladies were enormously talented, obviously, but they were also both very laid back and friendly and chatty. The whole thing felt like sitting in coffee shop, watching your friend perform. It was really lovely. Boyfriend and i had an amazing hotel room, and we spent some time cuddling, and antiquing, and exploring, and doing other things. On our way back home, we stopped at a state liquor store (we were in New Hampshire), and stocked up.
Then there was a hurricane. I was making myself dinner and drinking a rum and coke, when my roommates invited me to hang out. So i grabbed a bottle of wine and went downstairs, where we played Cards Against Humanity and i drank nearly the whole bottle of wine on my own. Then we took a break, and i went upstairs and got my special Black Velvet Toasted Caramel whiskey. We mixed it with apple cider and the rest of the evening is kind of a blur. I know i ate some pizza at one point. The next day, i took a sick day. Partly because i wanted to do laundry and never take any sick time and was out of vacation and personal time, and partly because i was too hung over to go into work.
Then i was proofreading and editing a paper for a guy in an MBA program. English was not his first language, and business is not my thing, so it was a lot of work. But it's the kind of work i love, so it was awesome.
Then Boyfriend and i had some serious discussions, and then i wrote him a whole bunch of love letters. Like, pen to paper, envelope, send through snail mail love letters that our grandchildren will read over one day. I know. How cute are we?
And then we organized our Thanksgiving trip down to Maryland to see my family and eat pie.
And finally, i and one of my downstairs neighbors have started an informal writing workshop group. So far, it's just the two of us, but we're hoping to expand soon. So i was revising old things, and realizing that everything i write should just be a sonnet and i should stop pretending that it isn't, and that i've missed this, and then i sent him two poems and he sent me a one-act play and we will meet this weekend to workshop them.
Oh! And i've also started going to the gym 3ish times a week. I do mountain climbing on the treadmill to a 90's pop music playlist, except for when i forget my iPod, in which case i watch Frasier instead. And then i drink a lot of water and eat some almonds or cashews and then go home and order a calzone or some Chinese food and eat it all in one sitting while watching The Office. It feels so great to be healthy.
Posting has been a little erratic lately. I do know that. Sorry.
All i can really say is that i've been so busy actually doing things that i have no time to write about them. I'll give you guys a quick synopsis of the past month and a half, and then we'll call it even, k?
So, in October, one of my best friends married her best friend, and i was a bridesmaid. So Boyfriend and i took a train, which arrived in Philly at 4:30 am, and then we waited for the rental car place to open. Then when it did, they apparently required a deposit (which they had not told us when we made the reservation and which he has never had to pay before when he has rented a car), and since he didn't have enough money in his account to cover the whole thing, his card was declined. So he made some angry phone calls, and i pulled out my iPad and transferred some money from my savings account and paid for the rental car. Then we went out to the parking lot, and our car was blocked in by three other cars. We called the office to ask them to move it, and then sat there for twenty minutes waiting. Finally, someone came out and walked around the three cars blocking us, looking confused, until Boyfriend got out and said, "Hey, can you move one of these cars so we can get out?" The guy looked more confused. Apparently, the office had told him to move a car, but not which car or why they needed it moved. Another ten minutes went by before we could leave. We slept at the hotel for a few hours, and then went to set up the church/rehearse/have the rehearsal dinner. Then the other bridesmaids and i stayed at the bride's parents' house. Then the wedding, and then the reception, and then Boyfriend and i went back to our hotel and passed out, exhausted. We checked out early the next morning, because our train left at 7:30. The rental car place wasn't open, and the gate to get into the rental lot wouldn't open, so we had to leave the car in the regular parking garage. A few hours later, when we were on the train, we got a rude phone call from the office, demanding to know where the car was. The story ends with Boyfriend writing an angry letter to the rental company.
The following weekend, we went to see Ingrid Michaelson on her acoustic tour with Katie Herzig. It was honestly one of the best shows i have ever seen. Both ladies were enormously talented, obviously, but they were also both very laid back and friendly and chatty. The whole thing felt like sitting in coffee shop, watching your friend perform. It was really lovely. Boyfriend and i had an amazing hotel room, and we spent some time cuddling, and antiquing, and exploring, and doing other things. On our way back home, we stopped at a state liquor store (we were in New Hampshire), and stocked up.
Then there was a hurricane. I was making myself dinner and drinking a rum and coke, when my roommates invited me to hang out. So i grabbed a bottle of wine and went downstairs, where we played Cards Against Humanity and i drank nearly the whole bottle of wine on my own. Then we took a break, and i went upstairs and got my special Black Velvet Toasted Caramel whiskey. We mixed it with apple cider and the rest of the evening is kind of a blur. I know i ate some pizza at one point. The next day, i took a sick day. Partly because i wanted to do laundry and never take any sick time and was out of vacation and personal time, and partly because i was too hung over to go into work.
Then i was proofreading and editing a paper for a guy in an MBA program. English was not his first language, and business is not my thing, so it was a lot of work. But it's the kind of work i love, so it was awesome.
Then Boyfriend and i had some serious discussions, and then i wrote him a whole bunch of love letters. Like, pen to paper, envelope, send through snail mail love letters that our grandchildren will read over one day. I know. How cute are we?
And then we organized our Thanksgiving trip down to Maryland to see my family and eat pie.
And finally, i and one of my downstairs neighbors have started an informal writing workshop group. So far, it's just the two of us, but we're hoping to expand soon. So i was revising old things, and realizing that everything i write should just be a sonnet and i should stop pretending that it isn't, and that i've missed this, and then i sent him two poems and he sent me a one-act play and we will meet this weekend to workshop them.
Oh! And i've also started going to the gym 3ish times a week. I do mountain climbing on the treadmill to a 90's pop music playlist, except for when i forget my iPod, in which case i watch Frasier instead. And then i drink a lot of water and eat some almonds or cashews and then go home and order a calzone or some Chinese food and eat it all in one sitting while watching The Office. It feels so great to be healthy.
Monday, September 17, 2012
infinite loop
If you have ever read a short story, novel, poem, or piece of speculative fiction about time travel, if you have ever seen a TV show, movie, web short, play, or commercial about time travel, if your physics professor ever mentioned time travel in class, you know the most important rule: don't change anything in the past.
If you change something in the past, even something totally insignificant -- like, say, giving Native Americans safety pins or encouraging Napoleon to grow a beard -- you will return to your present time only to find that it has transformed into a nightmare world, where Nazis have teamed up with Martians to enslave lesser races and turn them into hamburgers. If you somehow travel into the past, you must make sure that your presence there is totally undetectable, that your arrival and departure create no ripples in the fabric of existence, that you change nothing. God forbid you should somehow prevent your parents from meeting, or from getting married, or anything like that -- you will wipe out your own existence!
Except that, if you wipe out your own existence, there will be no "you" to interfere with your parents. Which means that they will meet and get married and have you, and you will be born.
Which means that there will be a "you" to interfere with the past, wiping yourself out of existence.
Which means that there will be no "you" to interfere, meaning that everything will unfold in exactly the way that it already has.
Which means that you will be born.
Which means that there will be a "you" to interfere with the past . . .
The problem with interfering in the past is NOT that it would change the rest of the course of history, necessitating a trip back to set everything right (hilarity ensues as the hero finds himself fending off advances from his own mother!). The problem with interfering in the past is that it would create a tear in the space-time continuum, and send you rocketing back and forth between existence and non-existence like a metaphysical tennis ball. Plus, remember the butterfly effect: if your parents had never met, obviously you wouldn't exist, but what else might have changed? Who would they have married instead? Would one of them have found the cure for cancer? Would one of them have become the next Hitler? Imagine a world of constant, rippling change, where you rocket back and forth between existence and non-existence, the whole face of the two worlds drastically different. One world would be the one we know, but what would the other one be? Utopia or Hell?
Which is a fascinating concept for a story.
We all assume that life proceeds onward in a straight line, unhindered by any science fiction tropes. But in reality, there was a time traveler at some point in the past/present/future who so badly fucked up that the entire universe is constantly being re-created and destroyed. Every generation, the re-set button is pressed, and none of us are aware of it, because we are all living inside the loop (Matrix-like). There is no progress, no moving forward. Just endless, senseless reincarnation. And physics.
If you change something in the past, even something totally insignificant -- like, say, giving Native Americans safety pins or encouraging Napoleon to grow a beard -- you will return to your present time only to find that it has transformed into a nightmare world, where Nazis have teamed up with Martians to enslave lesser races and turn them into hamburgers. If you somehow travel into the past, you must make sure that your presence there is totally undetectable, that your arrival and departure create no ripples in the fabric of existence, that you change nothing. God forbid you should somehow prevent your parents from meeting, or from getting married, or anything like that -- you will wipe out your own existence!
Except that, if you wipe out your own existence, there will be no "you" to interfere with your parents. Which means that they will meet and get married and have you, and you will be born.
Which means that there will be a "you" to interfere with the past, wiping yourself out of existence.
Which means that there will be no "you" to interfere, meaning that everything will unfold in exactly the way that it already has.
Which means that you will be born.
Which means that there will be a "you" to interfere with the past . . .
The problem with interfering in the past is NOT that it would change the rest of the course of history, necessitating a trip back to set everything right (hilarity ensues as the hero finds himself fending off advances from his own mother!). The problem with interfering in the past is that it would create a tear in the space-time continuum, and send you rocketing back and forth between existence and non-existence like a metaphysical tennis ball. Plus, remember the butterfly effect: if your parents had never met, obviously you wouldn't exist, but what else might have changed? Who would they have married instead? Would one of them have found the cure for cancer? Would one of them have become the next Hitler? Imagine a world of constant, rippling change, where you rocket back and forth between existence and non-existence, the whole face of the two worlds drastically different. One world would be the one we know, but what would the other one be? Utopia or Hell?
Which is a fascinating concept for a story.
We all assume that life proceeds onward in a straight line, unhindered by any science fiction tropes. But in reality, there was a time traveler at some point in the past/present/future who so badly fucked up that the entire universe is constantly being re-created and destroyed. Every generation, the re-set button is pressed, and none of us are aware of it, because we are all living inside the loop (Matrix-like). There is no progress, no moving forward. Just endless, senseless reincarnation. And physics.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
elephants
When i was younger, i used to collect collections.I have been a huge nerd for my entire life, and when i was younger i used to think that if i had some cool "thing", i would become cool by default.
Having only a very tenuous grasp of the concept of "coolness" and of what things could be labeled cool, i decided that a really awesome collection of some kind would really seal the deal for me. The trouble is, i could never decide which collection was the coolest one. (That wasn't really the trouble. But it was the thing that precipitated this story.)
I tried collecting stamps, keys, coins, rocks, pieces of wood, stuffed animals, old books, beads, erasers, safety pins, buttons, shells, sea glass, and marbles. (This is not a complete list.) Please take note of the lack of coolness for basically every item on the list. And lest you be tempted to argue, thinking that some of these things sound like they might make really impressive collections, allow me to disenchant you. I was young, and had no money, and my town had extremely limited access to everything but soybean fields. So my collection of, for example, stamps, was not some colorful album full of rare, expensive pieces of miniature postage art. It was more an envelope full of regular stamps that we had recently received. Our exchange students did afford me access to some international stamps, but by and large my collection lacked value, interest, and diversity.
| "I meant what I said, And I said what I meant. An elephant's faithful One hundred percent!" |
This brings us to the elephants.
I really do like elephants. I think they look majestic and solemn and beautiful, and the little ones are insanely cute. They're generally considered faithful, responsible, patient, and lucky. Maybe that's why Dr. Seuss's Horton, who took care of someone else's egg through terrible winter storms and who almost died protecting people too small to be seen, was an elephant.
Anyway, i started collecting elephants some time in middle school, i think. And after a while, though i still liked them and would occasionally buy elephant things, i wasn't really interested in my collection.And yet, it grows.
When my roommate went on a trip, the present she brought back to me was a hand-carved elephant (with a baby elephant inside! Insane!) I hadn't said anything about my elephant collection to her; she had just seen it in my room and decided to contribute. My mom bought me elephant earrings one year for Christmas. My sister gave me a whole family of bright orange elephant figurines.
But my brother has been the biggest supporter of my collection over the years. A few years ago, just as my collection fever was starting to wane, he gave me an elephant figurine the size of a cat. Then he went on a trip to Luray Caverns in Virginia and brought me an elephant carved of glossy gray stone. When he went to Italy, he brought me a glass elephant. When he went to a toy store, he brought me a plastic elephant.
This past weekend, at my sister's graduation party, Adam brought me a jade elephant. He walked up to the table where i was picking crabs, placed it in front of me without a word, and sat down.
"Oh, wow!" i said, trying to figure out if he was giving it to me or just showing it to me. "This is pretty sweet!"
"Some Asian lady was selling these in the hospital, and it was cheap, so I picked one up," he said nonchalantly, and then started eating crabs. (It was, in fact, a gift for me. Adam is thoughtful and sweet, but doesn't like to actually say out loud anything that might indicate that fact.)
Monday, March 19, 2012
Red M&Ms Really Do Taste Better
I know, there's no flavoring associated with the colored coating. It's just food coloring and sugar. My brain is hard-wired to interpret colors as flavors, and red is my favorite color, so i think that they taste better when they really taste exactly the same. In a blind taste test, i wouldn't be able to tell one color from the next.
Except that the red ones are clearly superior.
I have carefully researched evidence to back up my claims: Mars (the company that makes them, not the planet or the god) makes more red ones than any other color. I know this because i have started buying bags of their peanut butter M&Ms to keep in my desk for when i need an afternoon sugar/protein boost. I bought a bag at the end of the summer, and as it was running out, i replaced it with two bags of the "fall colors" candies. These were, in their turn, replaced by Christmas ones, which were replaced by Valentine's ones.
Each of these bags contains a variety of colors, but they all have red. Furthermore, they all have a higher proportion of red to other colors.
How do i know?
Because i like the red ones best, and because i am slightly (extremely) OCD, i eat my M&Ms in reverse spectrum order. I also count out the exact same number each time for my serving. This means that when i eat the non-seasonal ones, i eat two of each color: brown, blue, green, yellow, orange, and red. Twelve total. The fall ones have four colors: brown, dark yellow, red, and a dark purply-red. This means that i eat three of each of these, and i eat them in this order: yellow, brown, purply-red, red. Christmas is red, dark green, light green, and white; again, three of each, and dark green-light green-white-red. And Valentines are three each of white, light pink, dark pink, and red.
The significance of this is that when the bag is new, i always eat the same number of each color. But some colors run out faster than others. I compensate by eating more of the other colors to ensure that i eat exactly twelve every time. I often compensate with the red ones, because they are my favorite. Yet red is always the last color to run out.
You could explain this in one of three ways:
I suppose it's possible that this is all coincidence. Maybe somewhere in the world, there is a person who never gets any red M&Ms, or at most, one or two per bag. Well, if that person is you, and you are reading this now, i am not going to share.
Except that the red ones are clearly superior.
 |
| Notice how all the other colors are supporting the red one. |
I have carefully researched evidence to back up my claims: Mars (the company that makes them, not the planet or the god) makes more red ones than any other color. I know this because i have started buying bags of their peanut butter M&Ms to keep in my desk for when i need an afternoon sugar/protein boost. I bought a bag at the end of the summer, and as it was running out, i replaced it with two bags of the "fall colors" candies. These were, in their turn, replaced by Christmas ones, which were replaced by Valentine's ones.
Each of these bags contains a variety of colors, but they all have red. Furthermore, they all have a higher proportion of red to other colors.
How do i know?
 |
| So orderly and delicious. |
The significance of this is that when the bag is new, i always eat the same number of each color. But some colors run out faster than others. I compensate by eating more of the other colors to ensure that i eat exactly twelve every time. I often compensate with the red ones, because they are my favorite. Yet red is always the last color to run out.
You could explain this in one of three ways:
- I am delusional.
- Mars knows that people like red best (Kool-Aid's default color is red, as is Hawaiian Punch, Twizzlers, and many popular fruits like apples and cherries), so they make more red ones than any others in order to subconsciously trigger consumer's brains to think that M&Ms are inexplicably slightly better than all other candies. This is also why the original M&Ms spokescandy was a red M&M.
- The Mars company is actually located on the Mars planet (the red planet) and owned by the Mars god (god of war).
I suppose it's possible that this is all coincidence. Maybe somewhere in the world, there is a person who never gets any red M&Ms, or at most, one or two per bag. Well, if that person is you, and you are reading this now, i am not going to share.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
How Not to Get a Girl 2
Another guy i work with. Again, all totally real.
N: So you and John are not engaged yet?
Me: No. There's no need to rush things like that. If we're going to be spending the rest of our lives together, then we have the rest of our lives. We don't need to get married immediately.
N: Wow. You're so amazing. If only you were single . . .
N: Hey, gorgeous. How's John?
N: Guess what I'm doing in two hours?!
Me: Making out with your girlfriend?
N: No. She's six hours away.
Me: I know. I just like to taunt you.
N: Ew. Um, for some reason my brain connected "taunt" with you and me making out, and . . . Ew. Not that I think it would be gross to make out with you, just . . . With the relationship we have, it would be . . . Not that I want to make out with you . . . Or that I've thought about it . . .
Me: Do you need another shovel? Oh, no, it looks like you're doing just fine with the one you've got.
N: So you and John are not engaged yet?
Me: No. There's no need to rush things like that. If we're going to be spending the rest of our lives together, then we have the rest of our lives. We don't need to get married immediately.
N: Wow. You're so amazing. If only you were single . . .
N: Hey, gorgeous. How's John?
Me: He's great. We're great. Things are so great with us.
N: Awww, you guys are so cute together. I wish I could find someone like you.
N: How was your break?
N: How was your break?
Me: Pretty good.
N: And how's John? Did you guys spend any time together over the holidays?
Me: Yeah; actually, he came down to Maryland with me and met my whole family.
N: How did that go?
Me: It went great. Everyone really loved him. It was wonderful.
N: Awesome. So are you guys still together, or . . . ?
Me: So you have a girlfriend now?
Me: So you have a girlfriend now?
N: Yeah. I figured I couldn't wait around for you forever.
Me: I wondered why you hadn't been hitting on me as much lately.
N: Ha ha ha!
Me: Awwww. You laugh like i'm kidding.
N: Guess what I'm doing in two hours?!
Me: Making out with your girlfriend?
N: No. She's six hours away.
Me: I know. I just like to taunt you.
N: Ew. Um, for some reason my brain connected "taunt" with you and me making out, and . . . Ew. Not that I think it would be gross to make out with you, just . . . With the relationship we have, it would be . . . Not that I want to make out with you . . . Or that I've thought about it . . .
Me: Do you need another shovel? Oh, no, it looks like you're doing just fine with the one you've got.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Larissa, You're So Vain, You Probably Think This Post Is About You
While C is out of the office, i have no one to tell my stories to. So i'll have to tell them here.
Yesterday, Wesley came in and awkwardly visited me for a while. Also, he may have taken a picture of me with his phone. We should check his background and see if it's still you or if it's switched to me.
My food stash in my desk is running low. I need to buy more peanut butter m'n'ms and Pringles. Also, i worked out yesterday and now my abs hurt. Boo.
KP has me doing more grading projects for her. We should totally start a grading business for professors and local teachers. We could make bank. We can work up a business plan while you're in Mongolia and then launch it when you get back.
I feel like i had another story to tell you, but maybe i was hallucinating. I need a nap.
I hate it when people call/come into the office and have no idea who they need to talk to.
"Um, I got a letter from someone about something, so . . . can you do that?"
What? No. Read the letter again. See if there is any helpful information in there anywhere. Even one word, like "account" or "schedule" could be enormously helpful. You really don't remember anything? How have you managed to stay alive this long, let alone get into college? Please step away from my desk before i cut you.
Four o'clock. This is what my ex used to call the "power hour". He was dumb. This is also when you usually drift over to my desk to see how i am killing time in the last hour. Usually, i'm reading blogs, Facebook chatting with my boyfriend, or doing homework. Today i would probably complain to you about how my abs hurt and i should never have started working out again. Because they do, and i shouldn't have. Let's be honest: i'm already as hot as anyone could ever be, right? What's the point of working out?
Someone in my office was wearing jeans and Uggs today. I think it's perfectly acceptable for you and i to relax our dress code a little.
I really want to have a tea party one day. Mostly because my dad gave me this hand-me-down tea set and i haven't really had a chance to use it. Let's have a tea party with little elegant cakes and big flowered hats when the weather gets warmer. We can have it on my porch. Because Beer Street is the epitome of class and sophistication.
Okay, it's almost 5:00. Damn, this was a boring day at work. Please come back and be bored with me? Kthanx.
Wednesday:
You'd better have some great stories from this trip. All i want is for all of your decisions in life to pan out positively for me, in terms of entertainment and vicarious thrills. Is that too much to ask? Please keep in mind that if you tell me interesting stories, i might blog them. And it will be almost like you're famous. I mean, not really, because i would steal the story and not give you any credit, and anyway i only have like five readers, but it's something, right?
My abs still hurt from working out on Monday. This is Wednesday. This is why i never work out. Except that i did lunges today, but whatever. My legs are fine.
Wesley just brought me a fax and asked where to sign up for a campus tour.
Yesterday, Wesley came in and awkwardly visited me for a while. Also, he may have taken a picture of me with his phone. We should check his background and see if it's still you or if it's switched to me.
My food stash in my desk is running low. I need to buy more peanut butter m'n'ms and Pringles. Also, i worked out yesterday and now my abs hurt. Boo.
KP has me doing more grading projects for her. We should totally start a grading business for professors and local teachers. We could make bank. We can work up a business plan while you're in Mongolia and then launch it when you get back.
I feel like i had another story to tell you, but maybe i was hallucinating. I need a nap.
I hate it when people call/come into the office and have no idea who they need to talk to.
"Um, I got a letter from someone about something, so . . . can you do that?"
What? No. Read the letter again. See if there is any helpful information in there anywhere. Even one word, like "account" or "schedule" could be enormously helpful. You really don't remember anything? How have you managed to stay alive this long, let alone get into college? Please step away from my desk before i cut you.
Four o'clock. This is what my ex used to call the "power hour". He was dumb. This is also when you usually drift over to my desk to see how i am killing time in the last hour. Usually, i'm reading blogs, Facebook chatting with my boyfriend, or doing homework. Today i would probably complain to you about how my abs hurt and i should never have started working out again. Because they do, and i shouldn't have. Let's be honest: i'm already as hot as anyone could ever be, right? What's the point of working out?
Someone in my office was wearing jeans and Uggs today. I think it's perfectly acceptable for you and i to relax our dress code a little.
I really want to have a tea party one day. Mostly because my dad gave me this hand-me-down tea set and i haven't really had a chance to use it. Let's have a tea party with little elegant cakes and big flowered hats when the weather gets warmer. We can have it on my porch. Because Beer Street is the epitome of class and sophistication.
Okay, it's almost 5:00. Damn, this was a boring day at work. Please come back and be bored with me? Kthanx.
Wednesday:
You'd better have some great stories from this trip. All i want is for all of your decisions in life to pan out positively for me, in terms of entertainment and vicarious thrills. Is that too much to ask? Please keep in mind that if you tell me interesting stories, i might blog them. And it will be almost like you're famous. I mean, not really, because i would steal the story and not give you any credit, and anyway i only have like five readers, but it's something, right?
My abs still hurt from working out on Monday. This is Wednesday. This is why i never work out. Except that i did lunges today, but whatever. My legs are fine.
Wesley just brought me a fax and asked where to sign up for a campus tour.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Lazarus
Lazarus is our mouse. My cat, Charlotte, has actually caught him several times. She chases him and plays with him like he's simply the world's best cat toy. I'm not sure she has realized yet that he is potential food. I have seen them chasing each other around the house like real-life Tom and Jerry. In fact, Charlotte does look a little like Tom.
Several times, i have heard Lazarus' frenzied squeaks as Charlotte's play gets a little rough. Yet not only does he always manage to somehow escape, but he keeps coming back. Hence the name.
We do not have an overly messy apartment, so there are not many places for him to hide. We do not leave lots of food out, so there is not anything for him to eat. And there is a large, fast, highly intelligent cat who loves to catch and torture him. Why does he keep coming back?
A few days ago, one of my roommates found Lazarus' body. Apparently, one of the cats was finally successful. Let's see if he shows up again in a few weeks.
Several times, i have heard Lazarus' frenzied squeaks as Charlotte's play gets a little rough. Yet not only does he always manage to somehow escape, but he keeps coming back. Hence the name.
We do not have an overly messy apartment, so there are not many places for him to hide. We do not leave lots of food out, so there is not anything for him to eat. And there is a large, fast, highly intelligent cat who loves to catch and torture him. Why does he keep coming back?
A few days ago, one of my roommates found Lazarus' body. Apparently, one of the cats was finally successful. Let's see if he shows up again in a few weeks.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
classy as shit 2
Today, i was eating a LeanPocket for lunch. Yeah, i know. Back to LeanPockets. Anyway, i was standing outside and talking to a friend, and when i took a bite, a huge glob of cheesy chicken goodness fell out on my sweater.
I looked at my friend, looked at my sweater, and proceeded to eat the LeanPocket filling off of my cardigan.
I looked at my friend, looked at my sweater, and proceeded to eat the LeanPocket filling off of my cardigan.
classy as shit 1
Last night, i got home at 10:30 after a late class and a trip to CVS for a binder and hot chocolate mix. I knew i'd be up late with homework, and i was also starving, because i'd only eaten a small sandwich and a bowl of soup at 12:30 and had had nothing but M'N'Ms since.
The meal was lovely: steak, mashed potatoes, and sauteed asparagus. I had a California white wine to go with it.
But since i was already so tired, and would already have to wash so many dishes, i wanted to reduce my workload as much as possible.
So midnight saw me sitting at the kitchen table, writing lesson plans, and swigging wine straight from the bottle.
The meal was lovely: steak, mashed potatoes, and sauteed asparagus. I had a California white wine to go with it.
But since i was already so tired, and would already have to wash so many dishes, i wanted to reduce my workload as much as possible.
So midnight saw me sitting at the kitchen table, writing lesson plans, and swigging wine straight from the bottle.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
How to Tell I Need a Life #8
This morning, i was trying to play solitaire, but my cat's tail kept getting in the way of the screen and blocking my view.
Friday, October 14, 2011
So, what is there to do around here?
I've taken a quick trip down home to see my brother. His girlfriend came too. She has only been to Maryland once, and not to visit Adam. She has never been to our house or met most of our family.
As we sat at the dining room table, she doing homework and me reading The Bloggess, she asked what there was to do in our town. And could not stop laughing as i answered her.
"Well, in the next town over, there's a movie theater. It has five screens. There's a bigger theater about 40 minutes away.
"When i was in high school, the kids would all get into their pickup trucks, drive down to the shopping plaza, and smoke and drink until the cops came and told them to leave, because they were loitering. Then they'd drive a few hundred yards to the ice cream place and do the same thing until they went home to bed. This happened three or four nights out of the week, minimum.
"The town with the big theater also has a mall. And some restaurants.
"Other than that, there's the internet. Or cable. We read a lot . . ."
She nodded, still laughing, and said, "Okay."
I grinned. "Yeah. That's why i don't live here anymore."
None of the above activities were in any way exaggerated for comic effect.
As we sat at the dining room table, she doing homework and me reading The Bloggess, she asked what there was to do in our town. And could not stop laughing as i answered her.
"Well, in the next town over, there's a movie theater. It has five screens. There's a bigger theater about 40 minutes away.
"When i was in high school, the kids would all get into their pickup trucks, drive down to the shopping plaza, and smoke and drink until the cops came and told them to leave, because they were loitering. Then they'd drive a few hundred yards to the ice cream place and do the same thing until they went home to bed. This happened three or four nights out of the week, minimum.
"The town with the big theater also has a mall. And some restaurants.
"Other than that, there's the internet. Or cable. We read a lot . . ."
She nodded, still laughing, and said, "Okay."
I grinned. "Yeah. That's why i don't live here anymore."
None of the above activities were in any way exaggerated for comic effect.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
How to Tell I Need A Life #7
I've been pretty broke lately, so i've been bringing sandwiches or salads to work for lunch. And because i take my lunch break at a different time than everyone else in my office, i've been sitting outside of the student center, alone, eating my sandwich and reading. And since eating a sandwich only takes a few minutes and my lunch break is an hour long, i use the rest of the time to knit.
Lest you think that this is the pinnacle of sadness, allow me to reassure you: it gets worse.
For the last two days, it has been raining, so i could not eat my lunch outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Instead, i took my LeanPocket to the mezzanine floor, which is right above my office. I can hear all of their conversations from up there. I sat in front of the elevator two days in a row, eating my LeanPocket, knitting, and trying to pretend that i was not still at work.
Lest you think that this is the pinnacle of sadness, allow me to reassure you: it gets worse.
For the last two days, it has been raining, so i could not eat my lunch outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Instead, i took my LeanPocket to the mezzanine floor, which is right above my office. I can hear all of their conversations from up there. I sat in front of the elevator two days in a row, eating my LeanPocket, knitting, and trying to pretend that i was not still at work.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Kindling
I have a confession to make.
A few months ago, i bought myself a Kindle
.
I know, i know. It's an abomination. Reading is a very sensuous experience. You can feel the feathery, silky pages under your fingers and the pressure of the book in your hands. You smell the rich and varied scents of paper, ink, and binding, ranging from the intoxicating freshness of a brand-new book (which, incidentally, is exactly what my boyfriend smells like), to the dusty, leathery musk of a used one. You see the typeface, carefully selected for that particular text, and you see the covers, the myriad shades of white according to the type of paper used and the age of the book, the tiny imperfections of the page, and the smudges in the margins of a book well-read.
A Kindle has none of that. All typefaces are converted into one, and while it is clear and easy to read, it has none of the individuality of a paper text, nor can "hand-written" notes in the story be seen in their original glory. It smells very faintly of plastic and the fake leather of the case. There is no variety in the smooth perfection of the virtual pages, and even underlining or comments in the margins create only a minimal disturbance in the pristine, black-and-white visual. It is clean, sterile, and heartless.
I have also been accused of contributing to the downfall of the publishing companies. This is just nonsense. First of all, i will still buy paper texts. The Kindle is mostly for travel and beach fiction. Secondly, the publishing companies are the ones who create and distribute the ebooks. Finally, most of the books on my Kindle are in the public domain, meaning that they are free and can be found on a number of websites (my personal favorites are Amazon and Gutenberg). Sure, publishing companies make money off of them, but only by reprinting existing editions with fancier covers (and yes, i covet those with all my soul, but i am not currently in a position to slap down $10 on a shiny new Jane Austen novel, when i already own three copies of it.) Furthermore, many of my Kindle ebooks are simply free digital copies of books that i already own in paper format, and that i paid good money to a publishing company to obtain. I just want a digital backup so that i can take my favorite books on the road or to the beach, and so that i will always have a copy, no matter how many paperbacks i read into confetti.
Why did i buy a Kindle? A few different reasons. First, i live in Massachusetts, and my family lives in Delmarva. When i go home for holidays, i spend lots of time either in an airport or in a bus/car. Then i get to the house, where everyone is at work or school. I have no car, and no job/school/friends to occupy me, and we are ten miles from the nearest shopping district. So i bring lots of books with me. Meaning i have to lug heavy suitcases around everywhere and i have no room for clothes. A Kindle means that i can bring thousands of books with me, in a package smaller than most paperbacks and weighing hardly more than my phone.
Next, i'll be starting grad school in the fall. Most Kindle ebooks cost less than $25. So i can buy one Kindle for $140 and a bunch of textbooks for $25 or less, or i can buy a bunch of textbooks for $100-300 each. I know that many textbooks can be bought used for much cheaper, and that is indeed how i got through my undergraduate education. But here is something else to consider: i find that i never really need to read my textbooks. Sometimes, sure, they are helpful, but for the most part i find that lecture notes are perfectly adequate. Kindle allows you to download a sample (usually the first chapter) of any book for free. If you want more, you can buy the whole book. If not, you can delete it. No harm, no foul. This means that i will only have to buy the books i'll actually use.
Finally, i have grown increasingly concerned with my usage of paper. Everyone is trying to be more green these days, but there are some areas where you just can't cut corners. For example, a hospital has to throw away all of their used tongue depressers, even if the person it was used on is perfectly healthy. They can't just sterilize it and reuse it. Hospitals use a lot of energy, water, and other resources, and no one in their right minds is suggesting that they cut any corners. Sure, they could maybe switch to more earth-friendly lighting, and one argument against keeping people on life support is that the resources keeping them in a vegetative state could be used to actually cure someone, but for the most part, every "waste" in a hospital is perfectly justified.
Now, i'm not saying that my artistic sensibilites are the same as open-heart surgery, but i am saying that i write better when i write by hand than when i write on a computer. I feel more comfortable writing by hand, or printing out a copy of a draft and editing it. I like to hold the pen in my fingers and feel the paper under my hand. I feel more connected to the work that way. So i use a lot of paper when i am writing. I try to use scrap paper when i can, and i recycle the old drafts, but there is still a lot of waste. So i cut corners in other places when i can. And there is simply no reason that i should buy a paper copy of a book that is in the public domain. There is no reason that i should buy a paper copy of beach fiction. There is no reason that i should buy a paper textbook.
My favorite books i will always own in physical form, whether purchased brand-spankin' new or lovingly used. I will read them until their bindings disintegrate and then i will buy a fresh copy. I will break their spines, dog-ear their pages, spill tea on their covers, and scribble incomprehensible notes in their margins. My cat will chew on their edges. They will be forgotten on trains, borrowed and never returned, faded by the sun, used to prop up wobbly table legs, and will fall off of moving trucks and be lost forever. And while i save up money for the coveted hardback copy with the decorative cover
, i'll always have my digital backup
.
A few months ago, i bought myself a Kindle
.I know, i know. It's an abomination. Reading is a very sensuous experience. You can feel the feathery, silky pages under your fingers and the pressure of the book in your hands. You smell the rich and varied scents of paper, ink, and binding, ranging from the intoxicating freshness of a brand-new book (which, incidentally, is exactly what my boyfriend smells like), to the dusty, leathery musk of a used one. You see the typeface, carefully selected for that particular text, and you see the covers, the myriad shades of white according to the type of paper used and the age of the book, the tiny imperfections of the page, and the smudges in the margins of a book well-read.
A Kindle has none of that. All typefaces are converted into one, and while it is clear and easy to read, it has none of the individuality of a paper text, nor can "hand-written" notes in the story be seen in their original glory. It smells very faintly of plastic and the fake leather of the case. There is no variety in the smooth perfection of the virtual pages, and even underlining or comments in the margins create only a minimal disturbance in the pristine, black-and-white visual. It is clean, sterile, and heartless.
I have also been accused of contributing to the downfall of the publishing companies. This is just nonsense. First of all, i will still buy paper texts. The Kindle is mostly for travel and beach fiction. Secondly, the publishing companies are the ones who create and distribute the ebooks. Finally, most of the books on my Kindle are in the public domain, meaning that they are free and can be found on a number of websites (my personal favorites are Amazon and Gutenberg). Sure, publishing companies make money off of them, but only by reprinting existing editions with fancier covers (and yes, i covet those with all my soul, but i am not currently in a position to slap down $10 on a shiny new Jane Austen novel, when i already own three copies of it.) Furthermore, many of my Kindle ebooks are simply free digital copies of books that i already own in paper format, and that i paid good money to a publishing company to obtain. I just want a digital backup so that i can take my favorite books on the road or to the beach, and so that i will always have a copy, no matter how many paperbacks i read into confetti.
Why did i buy a Kindle? A few different reasons. First, i live in Massachusetts, and my family lives in Delmarva. When i go home for holidays, i spend lots of time either in an airport or in a bus/car. Then i get to the house, where everyone is at work or school. I have no car, and no job/school/friends to occupy me, and we are ten miles from the nearest shopping district. So i bring lots of books with me. Meaning i have to lug heavy suitcases around everywhere and i have no room for clothes. A Kindle means that i can bring thousands of books with me, in a package smaller than most paperbacks and weighing hardly more than my phone.
Next, i'll be starting grad school in the fall. Most Kindle ebooks cost less than $25. So i can buy one Kindle for $140 and a bunch of textbooks for $25 or less, or i can buy a bunch of textbooks for $100-300 each. I know that many textbooks can be bought used for much cheaper, and that is indeed how i got through my undergraduate education. But here is something else to consider: i find that i never really need to read my textbooks. Sometimes, sure, they are helpful, but for the most part i find that lecture notes are perfectly adequate. Kindle allows you to download a sample (usually the first chapter) of any book for free. If you want more, you can buy the whole book. If not, you can delete it. No harm, no foul. This means that i will only have to buy the books i'll actually use.
Finally, i have grown increasingly concerned with my usage of paper. Everyone is trying to be more green these days, but there are some areas where you just can't cut corners. For example, a hospital has to throw away all of their used tongue depressers, even if the person it was used on is perfectly healthy. They can't just sterilize it and reuse it. Hospitals use a lot of energy, water, and other resources, and no one in their right minds is suggesting that they cut any corners. Sure, they could maybe switch to more earth-friendly lighting, and one argument against keeping people on life support is that the resources keeping them in a vegetative state could be used to actually cure someone, but for the most part, every "waste" in a hospital is perfectly justified.
Now, i'm not saying that my artistic sensibilites are the same as open-heart surgery, but i am saying that i write better when i write by hand than when i write on a computer. I feel more comfortable writing by hand, or printing out a copy of a draft and editing it. I like to hold the pen in my fingers and feel the paper under my hand. I feel more connected to the work that way. So i use a lot of paper when i am writing. I try to use scrap paper when i can, and i recycle the old drafts, but there is still a lot of waste. So i cut corners in other places when i can. And there is simply no reason that i should buy a paper copy of a book that is in the public domain. There is no reason that i should buy a paper copy of beach fiction. There is no reason that i should buy a paper textbook.
My favorite books i will always own in physical form, whether purchased brand-spankin' new or lovingly used. I will read them until their bindings disintegrate and then i will buy a fresh copy. I will break their spines, dog-ear their pages, spill tea on their covers, and scribble incomprehensible notes in their margins. My cat will chew on their edges. They will be forgotten on trains, borrowed and never returned, faded by the sun, used to prop up wobbly table legs, and will fall off of moving trucks and be lost forever. And while i save up money for the coveted hardback copy with the decorative cover
, i'll always have my digital backup.
Monday, June 20, 2011
How to Tell I Need a Life #6
I got off work at 2:00. Instead of going to the beach, doing some shopping, or even taking a nap, i hung out with a professor, washed some dishes, cleaned my room, and organized my poetry folder.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
How to Tell I Need a Life #5
I get irrationally angry when people use bad grammar, spelling, or punctuation. You've heard of the Grammar Police? I am the Grammar Gestapo. Especially on the internet. I don't understand why online communications are so very, very bad. Some browsers even have spell-checking and other proofreading tools built in. And if you're ever unsure of something, open a new tab and look it up. IT'S NOT THAT FUCKING HARD!
. . . see what i mean?
. . . see what i mean?
Friday, May 13, 2011
INFJ
Those of you unfamiliar with the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator are no doubt mystified by the title of this post. Because you're lazy and didn't either Google it or click on the link above. Seriously. If you're reading this, you're on the freaking Internet. Use it.
Those of you who are familiar with Myers-Briggs Typology are now frantically trying to remember which category is INFJ, and what the initials stand for, and what that says about me. Because you are also lazy and don't know how to use multiple tabs at once.
It's okay. I'm going to do your work for you. I will even bold the most interesting and important parts. Who determines which are the most interesting and important parts? Me. What can you do about this? Read the whole thing. Stop whining.
INFJ stands for Introverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Judging. For those who are interested, i scored 91% on the "Introverted" scale. The rest of it fluctuates a little, but 91% is pretty damn introverted. Which should tell you a lot about me. And if it doesn't tell you anything, read on. The information in the following paragraphs is basically copied and pasted from the link in the first sentence. So why read it here instead of following the link? Because we've already established that you are too lazy and/or dumb to leave this page and do your own research.
As an INFJ, my primary mode of living is focused internally. I take things in primarily via intuition. My secondary mode is external, where i deal with things according to how i feel about them, or how they fit with my personal value system.
INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, we live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types. (That's right. I'm that awesome.)
INFJs place great importance on havings things orderly and systematic in our outer worlds. We put a lot of energy into identifying the best system for getting things done, and constantly define and re-define the priorities in our lives. On the other hand, INFJs operate within ourselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. We know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. We are usually right, and we usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into our instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk. (Or bedroom? I'm so glad my mom can't comment on this.)
INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. We get "feelings" about things and intuitively understand them. As an extreme example, some INFJs report experiences of a psychic nature, such as getting strong feelings about there being a problem with a loved one, and discovering later that they were in a car accident. This is the sort of thing that other types may scorn and scoff at, and we ourselves do not really understand our intuition at a level which can be verbalized. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of our inner selves, sharing only what we choose to share when we choose to share it. We are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of ourselves, and can be secretive. (Just ask anyone i've ever dated, been friends with, been related to, had counseling with, worked with, or randomly encountered in life.)
But INFJs are as genuinely warm as we are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who we are close to, who are able to see our special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people's feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. We are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. We may tend to internalize conflict into our bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.
Because INFJs have such strong intuitive capabilities, we trust our own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. We believe that we're right. On the other hand, INFJs are perfectionists who doubt that we are living up to our full potential. INFJs are rarely at complete peace with ourselves - there's always something else we should be doing to improve ourselves and the world around us. We believe in constant growth, and don't often take time to revel in our accomplishments. We have strong value systems, and need to live our lives in accordance with what we feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of our personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, we have very high expectations of ourselves, and frequently of our families. We don't believe in compromising our ideals.
INFJs are natural nurturers; patient, devoted and protective. We make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with our children. We have high expectations of our children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.
In the workplace, the INFJ usually shows up in areas where they can be creative and somewhat independent. They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.
The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but we are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.
Aside from a few INTJ tendencies, this is me in a nutshell. So now you know.
Those of you who are familiar with Myers-Briggs Typology are now frantically trying to remember which category is INFJ, and what the initials stand for, and what that says about me. Because you are also lazy and don't know how to use multiple tabs at once.
It's okay. I'm going to do your work for you. I will even bold the most interesting and important parts. Who determines which are the most interesting and important parts? Me. What can you do about this? Read the whole thing. Stop whining.
INFJ stands for Introverted, iNtuitive, Feeling, Judging. For those who are interested, i scored 91% on the "Introverted" scale. The rest of it fluctuates a little, but 91% is pretty damn introverted. Which should tell you a lot about me. And if it doesn't tell you anything, read on. The information in the following paragraphs is basically copied and pasted from the link in the first sentence. So why read it here instead of following the link? Because we've already established that you are too lazy and/or dumb to leave this page and do your own research.
As an INFJ, my primary mode of living is focused internally. I take things in primarily via intuition. My secondary mode is external, where i deal with things according to how i feel about them, or how they fit with my personal value system.
INFJs are gentle, caring, complex and highly intuitive individuals. Artistic and creative, we live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. Only one percent of the population has an INFJ Personality Type, making it the most rare of all the types. (That's right. I'm that awesome.)
INFJs place great importance on havings things orderly and systematic in our outer worlds. We put a lot of energy into identifying the best system for getting things done, and constantly define and re-define the priorities in our lives. On the other hand, INFJs operate within ourselves on an intuitive basis which is entirely spontaneous. We know things intuitively, without being able to pinpoint why, and without detailed knowledge of the subject at hand. We are usually right, and we usually know it. Consequently, INFJs put a tremendous amount of faith into our instincts and intuitions. This is something of a conflict between the inner and outer worlds, and may result in the INFJ not being as organized as other Judging types tend to be. Or we may see some signs of disarray in an otherwise orderly tendency, such as a consistently messy desk. (Or bedroom? I'm so glad my mom can't comment on this.)
INFJs have uncanny insight into people and situations. We get "feelings" about things and intuitively understand them. As an extreme example, some INFJs report experiences of a psychic nature, such as getting strong feelings about there being a problem with a loved one, and discovering later that they were in a car accident. This is the sort of thing that other types may scorn and scoff at, and we ourselves do not really understand our intuition at a level which can be verbalized. Consequently, most INFJs are protective of our inner selves, sharing only what we choose to share when we choose to share it. We are deep, complex individuals, who are quite private and typically difficult to understand. INFJs hold back part of ourselves, and can be secretive. (Just ask anyone i've ever dated, been friends with, been related to, had counseling with, worked with, or randomly encountered in life.)
But INFJs are as genuinely warm as we are complex. INFJs hold a special place in the heart of people who we are close to, who are able to see our special gifts and depth of caring. INFJs are concerned for people's feelings, and try to be gentle to avoid hurting anyone. We are very sensitive to conflict, and cannot tolerate it very well. Situations which are charged with conflict may drive the normally peaceful INFJ into a state of agitation or charged anger. We may tend to internalize conflict into our bodies, and experience health problems when under a lot of stress.
Because INFJs have such strong intuitive capabilities, we trust our own instincts above all else. This may result in an INFJ stubborness and tendency to ignore other people's opinions. We believe that we're right. On the other hand, INFJs are perfectionists who doubt that we are living up to our full potential. INFJs are rarely at complete peace with ourselves - there's always something else we should be doing to improve ourselves and the world around us. We believe in constant growth, and don't often take time to revel in our accomplishments. We have strong value systems, and need to live our lives in accordance with what we feel is right. In deference to the Feeling aspect of our personalities, INFJs are in some ways gentle and easy going. Conversely, we have very high expectations of ourselves, and frequently of our families. We don't believe in compromising our ideals.
INFJs are natural nurturers; patient, devoted and protective. We make loving parents and usually have strong bonds with our children. We have high expectations of our children, and push them to be the best that they can be. This can sometimes manifest itself in the INFJ being hard-nosed and stubborn. But generally, children of an INFJ get devoted and sincere parental guidance, combined with deep caring.
In the workplace, the INFJ usually shows up in areas where they can be creative and somewhat independent. They have a natural affinity for art, and many excel in the sciences, where they make use of their intuition. INFJs can also be found in service-oriented professions. They are not good at dealing with minutia or very detailed tasks. The INFJ will either avoid such things, or else go to the other extreme and become enveloped in the details to the extent that they can no longer see the big picture. An INFJ who has gone the route of becoming meticulous about details may be highly critical of other individuals who are not.
The INFJ individual is gifted in ways that other types are not. Life is not necessarily easy for the INFJ, but we are capable of great depth of feeling and personal achievement.
Aside from a few INTJ tendencies, this is me in a nutshell. So now you know.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
How To Tell I Need a Life #4
I have nothing to do for finals week this year, because i am a graduating senior, and graduating seniors don't take spring finals at my school. What are my plans for this glorious week of freedom, the last week before reality sets in permanently?
Organize my bookshelves, knit, and maybe pick up some more hours at work.
Organize my bookshelves, knit, and maybe pick up some more hours at work.
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