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I remain astounded by the number of people who search using one-word phrases like "frog" or "ravens." Dang, people, how time-consuming that must be!
Even more astonishing: my blog is on page 2 at google for the first, page 1 for the second. Who'da thunk it?
When I don't get enough sleep, I find it very easy to slide into depression.
Unfortunately, when I'm depressed, it's often the case that trying to sleep means lying in the dark thinking about things that make me more depressed -- and the only solution, alas, is to stay up until I am so exhausted that I just collapse into unconsciousness when I finally go to bed.
Not good, not good at all.
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?
No work today, which was bad from a financial perspective, but probably good for my psychic well-being. I did pick up my first paycheck today (woefully small -- especially since I figure that I'm losing about 15% of it to various government-type things), which was slightly heartening.
Then I spent two hours sitting in the DMV to get my "new" California license. I say "new" because it turns out that my old file was still "active" so all they needed was my $12. Even a new picture was optional, but I decided to get one anyway, as a way of feeling like I'd accomplished something by sitting there so long. (They've been touting an on-line reservation system as "more convenient" but since the earliest available one was not until October I'm glad I didn't take the "convenient" option. I also overheard one woman complaining that she'd had to wait even with an appointment!)
Then groceries, library, and home. After lunch D. and I went to IKEA -- partly to look for a wastebasket and partly to be snarky. I took particular delight in the weirdness of their chairs; there were barely any that I sat on that didn't contain some sort of surprise for the sitter. There were the "rocking" chairs that didn't, the strange wicker/rattan contraptions that were hard to get out of, the soft-looking poof that turned out to be a fur-covered inflatable, the plastic chair that went "bwonk" when sat on...
I was allured by lights and baskets, though I didn't buy any. The snark shield is vulnerable to these blandishments, it seems.
Then Thai food for dinner, to give D. a break from cooking (and because we like Thai food) -- a good ending to a generally good day.
Today was one of those days which feels productive in that the day was spent doing useful things, and unproductive because the useful things have yet to result in anything definite.
I began the morning with my appointment with the temp agency. I was all togged up in full interview mode (after a hasty dash to the nearby K-Mart to purchase -- shudder -- pantyhose) with ID, resumes, etc. and a full half-hour early. After this it was mostly filling out forms (some for background checks -- at least I didn't have to pee in a cup!) and watching an informational and safety video. It was fairly boring, though I was amused by the founding CEO's appearance (he seemed to be wearing lip liner!) and the oh-so-obvious safety information ("Hold the handrail when walking up or down stairs." "Do not pick up anything weighing over 50 pounds." "Adjust your chair and computer monitor before beginning work.").
My meeting with my "Associate" was much better; she was very helpful and seemed genuinely interested in finding work that I would enjoy and do well at. I did feel a bit like I was hunting with an elephant gun, however; she seemed somewhat at a loss as to how exactly I'd fit into their administrative schema while being appreciative of the skills I could bring to the table. No positions were immediately forthcoming, either; the two openings were for specialists in things like benefits and accounting.
(The problem of hunting with an elephant gun is that you're as likely to obliterate your prey as nail it, so it's not like you're going to be much better at collecting squirrels for the pot than someone with a BB gun.)
After this I drove around looking at apartments and neighborhoods. In my usual way, I found that the places and buildings I most liked were all out of my price budget or not vacant. I made the mistake of stopping at one "showing" in a lovely little community; I adored the apartment on sight, but have not been able to get through the phone line to find out how much it might cost. Now I am spoiled for just about anything else I might encounter. *sigh*
Here's where that ol' chicken and egg dilemma pops up again, too -- if I knew how much I'm likely to make each month, I'd have more freedom to be picky. I don't, so I'm having to look at potential apartments in terms of non-grottiness rather than in terms of desirability. (In a sense, I'm betting on my earning potential, with my home happiness and credit at stake.) Oddly, within my price range, there is surprisingly less correlation between price and ickiness than one might think. That is, within a $100 spread, you can have quite nice at the low end and rather dubious at the high, as well as the expected reverse.
I wish I was more enthusiastic about the whole process; I usually am when it comes to envisioning new places to live, but with that one exception, I have not felt inspired as yet. *sigh* Back to the classifieds...
... and I'm returning the favor. Nicely, Mr. Bad even reviewed my Weblog Showcase entry. I don't agree with this guy's politics, but his postings of dollar bills he's found with graffiti on them are fun.
Other sites I'm voting for at the Weblog Showcase (whew. I'm getting tired typing all this HTML, even with the joys of copy-and-paste. Teach me to go enter a blogging contest!)
Who Tends the Fires has a nice entry on The Beauty of Being Mom.
Dohiyi Mir explains "I Get It. Saddam Was Bad."
Steve Danforth writes about setting off In Pursuit of a Dream beyond the grind of his 9 to 5 job.
Also, courtesy of Household Opera, a link to FOUND Magazine. Very cool stuff there -- a gallery of found objects like photos 'n' stuff.
I just noticed that many of these job search books are written by people who were/are in sales. Perhaps this is why they rub me the wrong way. I had no trouble with the temp ladies or the Gen X dude.
Just when I begin to think I've gotten over this year's job search fiasco, I write a post like the preceding that demonstrates I have not. *sigh*
I just ran across this post by Archidamus in response to Thomas H. Benton's piece on grad school over at Invisible Adjunct's a while back. I appreciate his vehement defense of history as a calling and historian as an important identity -- I feel very strongly on both counts myself -- and agree that important scholarly interaction can and does occur in grad school, but where we deviate is in regards to the preceding question about what you do with yourself after grad school. Archidamus sees grad school primarily in terms of fulfilling that vocational urge and argues that one will always be called, regardless of whether you can find a job in the field afterward. He is also scornful those who demand more from the institution in terms of professional outcomes and complain when they fail to be fulfilled.
I have to politely disagree. An institution that permits the exercise of one's calling at an apprentice level but then fails to ensure that a majority (or even half) of the apprentices go on to become masters is a failed institution -- no matter if the people who were called found their apprenticeship fulfilling. I did find my apprenticeship fulfilling. I believe that I have achieved journey-woman status at least. But is that all that was promised me? No. Were those other promises fulfilled? No. That's where the problem lies, not in the vocational aspirations of the supplicants.
When he then concludes, "But if things don't work out, they don't work out. But I won't some less-than-perfect fortune ever deprive me of what I've learned in graduate school, and my own self-conception as a historian" I feel that perhaps the larger point of many of the complaints, my own included, was missed. My grief stems not with the loss of "my own self-conception as a historian." It stems from my rejection, systemic though it may be, by the very church in which my faith matured and was nurtured. A sense of knowledge and self may be important, but I also feel called to do more with my skills and experience, and am hurt that they are apparently unwanted by the very system that claims to prize them. I am a historian, but the traditional space for the practicing of my art has been denied me, and the system that trained me is part of a larger system that perpetuates that denial. You cannot separate the good from the bad, no matter how good the good. I may find other spaces for my craft, but this does not undo that moment of disillusionment and sense of failure resulting from that rejection.
At least grant me the space in which to lick my wounds while they are still fresh!
(I would have posted this there, but there is no commenting option. And yes, I am taking this personally. How could I not?)
You can now send me email at frogsandravens [at] yahoo [dot] com. I will probably check it about once a month; if you need a quicker response, use the comments.
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