Frogs and Ravens

Translation Games

It is cool to see one's blog translated into Italian! If nothing else, it shows me how idiomatic my writing is or is not.

I'll have to try it with some languages I know better!

Temp Work

One thing I'm discovering is how little people who've never temped know about the experience.

My friends and family are continually and repeatedly surprised when I tell them that, no, I'm no longer doing Job X. Job X only was for four days and ended several weeks ago. Moreover, I had a Job Y and a Job Z, and they're over too. And I don't know if there's another job on the horizon any time soon, nor how long it will last nor how much it will pay. This makes no sense to them.

Of course, I'm not sure if it makes sense to me, either.

Pruning

I was looking over my resume, which was a somewhat cheering experience -- I forget often how spiffy my work skills really are.

Unfortunately, I think that the next time I send out a resume I'm going to severely prune it first. I'll probably leave off the doctorate, for one thing (maybe even the M.A.), and find some way to account for my time that is not lying but which doesn't scream "snotty academic" either. Then I'll hack away everything that doesn't relate to the job description, even though it might make me more marketable in the long run. The goal: to look like an entry-level plain Jane with potential but no big flaring talent. Then, maybe, I'll at least get a chance to prove myself.

It's really farkin' stoopid, innit? To do what women have been told for years -- don't look smart, honey, you'll never get a man -- and what I did far too much of in high school -- playing dumb so other kids would like me.

But if it gets me a job...

Envy

The green-eyed worm
Coils around my core
Gives a little squeeze
A flare of pain,
Then the mist-grey pall
Of apathy.

Away for a Bit

I'm going out of town for the next few days -- will resume posting when I get back.

Perceptual Effects

One thing about doing a task with great intensity over several hours and days is that it begins to affect the way you see the world -- or at least this happens to me. As I mentioned earlier, I've been busy doing accession descriptions and condition reports for the local historical society. As a result, my "eye" for scratches, dings, corrosion and the like has been considerably sharpened. This is good as far as the work goes, but it can be a bit disconcerting when I leave the dim archival caverns and step back out into the outer world.

I find myself looking at the steering wheel of my car and think, "Shows slight wear along outer wheel surfaces. Plastic covering begrimed, with heavier accretions along areas of greater use." Or I look down at my shoes and "Leather surface worn, particularly around the edges and front of shoe. Nicks and gouges along front of toe box. Leather shows distortion along top edge of toe box, probably due to internal pressure by toes. Slight staining at edges of sole." And so on. It's somewhat strange seeing the world in terms of the effects of time and wear upon it.

Does this awareness make me more of an historian? Or a better yogini? Both perspectives are deeply concerned with the passage of time and the ephemeral quality of human creations. It is, however, mildly unsettling seeing these forces at work on objects in use as well as those that have fallen into disuse.



A side question which has long bothered me: why the heck am I "an" historian? I mean, we're not Cockneys or such. Can I get away with calling myself "a" historian or will the grammar police chase after me?

Lucky Me

Which Dr. Seuss character are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

(This is not a bad match, but as a kid I tended to find Horton rather pathetic.)

Acorns

I'm crunching sandal-clad through dry leaves, live oak leaves, their sharp spines prickly through my socks. Scattered on top of them are acorns. Some oaks in southern California produce acorns that are short and fat, with a little point on the end that makes them perfect for spinning as ersatz tops. These acorns are long and thin, most straight but a few curving like the talon of a bird. They are bright green and smooth when they first hit the ground; later they weather to a soft brown and then to black. This is if the insects and birds do not get to them first. Some have been pecked and chewed before they even land; others sport a tiny hole or two that says a worm is quietly devouring the meat from the inside out. Peel the stiff skin from an acorn and the meat is revealed -- crumbly and brown if old, streaked with lines of black if infested and smooth and yellow if fresh. A thin fuzzy layer, like the inner skin of a hard-boiled egg, can be removed in turn. The meat then gleams, golden with promise and calories.

The native peoples of this region -- Cahuilla and Kumeyaay and Sycuan and others -- migrated seasonally to harvest the acorns when they ripened. Each tribal group gravitated to its favored trees and each family within in the group to theirs. Acorns were pounded and dried into meal, baked into mush, boiled into porridge after the bitter tanins were leached out with boiling water. Some elders today speak wistfully of the sweet blandness of these foods, comforting in the way a favorite childhood dessert or meal would be.

Food aside, it is easy to see why these people gathered acorns. There is something deeply satisfying and compelling -- perhaps even primal -- about collecting a hatful, a jarful, a basketful of these smooth green promises that lie scattered so abundantly among the leaves. I feel it as I move among the sunlight and shadows, bent at the waist, acorn-laden hat swinging. My friends feel it as they drop them into jars to take home and plant or marvel at the smooth beauty of the meat inside. Their small daughter feels it too, though she thinks it only a game to gather up acorns in a frisbee. As she tips them back and forth in the shallow container, it is easy to envision another child, with a shallow woven basket, doing the same.

Museum Geekery

It's been confirmed -- I'm even more of an archive rat than I'd thought. I've been spending part of my unemployed time volunteering at one of the local museums, partly to have something to fill my time, partly because I want to gain some experience in this area, and increasingly because it is just fun. (Yay. Or -- at last!)

Now, I should explain what I think is fun, because only then will the title of this post make sense. I have been spending my days with a collection of interesting little objects that were recently taken off exhibit. (I'm going to be coy and not tell you exactly what the objects are -- I don't want to make the game of "find the Rana" too easy.) These things are of all ages and of varying degrees of physical complexity. They're made of combinations of materials and by many different manufacturers. So what I am doing with these objects is filling out a sheet for each one in which I describe both the object and its condition, inside and out, in as much detail as I can manage. I also include a sketch of each object, noting key features and problem areas.

I am _loving_ this. It's like a bunch of puzzles and art curios and nitpicking detail work and descriptive writing all in one.

Too bad the market for curators is even worse than that for historians; this has the feeling of a true vocation in a way teaching never was and archival research on its best days was and is.

Cheerfulness

Recently, several people have privately expressed concern to me that they'd been "too cheerful" in their comments or email to me and that this was making me feel bad.

I want to reassure you all that this is not the case, or at least not in a way that means everyone should stop telling me things will get better.

When I'm in one of my black moods, I'll read everything through that murky filter of angry hopeless depression -- BUT expressions of positive optimism will not provoke such a mood in and of themselves. Moreover, although while I'm brooding I'll think they're irrelevant to me, I WILL appreciate them when I mellow back out. In other words -- your comments don't make me feel bad; I make myself feel bad. Sometimes I use others' words to beat myself up with, but, believe me, I have an abundance of handmade weapons lying about in my very own brain that are much easier to use.

My snarkiness and bile are reserved for those who refuse to accept that anyone could be depressed in the first place and should just snap out of it. This doesn't describe anyone who's written directly to me.

Besides, even in my foulest mood it's good for me to remember that the world doesn't revolve around me -- just because I'm being a bitter pill doesn't mean that all happy activities in the world have to stop.

(This is another reason I was considering stopping the blog -- I myself hate reading my bitter angry words afterwards, yet during my bitchiness my own optimistic posts nauseate me.)