I'm Leaving...

...on a jet plane!

Well, not quite. Actually, not even remotely.

I am, however, relocating this whole mess o' thoughts to different grounds. Hopefully fertile ones where blogs will pop out of the ground like little daisies.

To see the site of future daisy-popping, head over to: picturesimperfect.blogspot.com

If there are no daisies yet, remember: you have to wait for spring. And rain. And possibly a minor miracle.


(Edit: Also, if anyone has a clue how to actually relocate this blog, rather than just starting all over again, that would be incredibly useful information. I think it would greatly facilitate the whole daisy-popping thing. If you were hoping for that.)

Breathing is Important, I Hear

So, I have a job interview. Well, two actually, but one is Monday and one is a week and a half away, so I'm going to hyperventilate over one of these at a time. Pace myself. Give my adrenal glands a break.

It's only a part-time position, thirty hours, but I am so tired of having nothing to do. Having unlimited free time is really boring - and stressful. Which is weird, because really what do I have to stress about? Which is what I think annoys me the most. I get all panicky because I'm not doing anything... and there's no reason to be stressed. I need logic for my emotions. This, of course, stresses me out even more. It's been a viciously circular month in my head.

Anyway, Job #1 is in a library at a community college. The job itself doesn't have me worried, I can libraratize like no one's buisness, but the interview is not going to be pretty. I don't do well in conversations. Then again, the woman already had to put up with my abysmal phone skills and still wants to interview me, so maybe there's hope here. I am very much not exaggerating here. I wish I was. But the rudiments of conversation are so darn hard. Like, when you're setting up a time, how do you wrangle around to a time within two minutes? I'm sure it's possible. Yet, I always wind up spending an eternity trying to strike a balance between convincing the interviewer that my schedule is open for her convenience and making random guesses at a good time after I've already basically told her I have no life, so pick a time she can fit me in and I'll show up. Also, how do you hang up? I say 'thank you,' then he says 'thank you,' and then there's dead air. Should I say 'goodbye?' That seems abrupt coming from a prospective employee, shouldn't he end it since he's the one who called? All this runs through my head during a phone call. At the end, I'm left with sweaty palms and the vague feeling that I said something idiotic, but I'm not sure what exactly.

It gets worse in person. Because then I'm trying to figure out what they want in an employee and how I can look like that. Also, how not to say anything dumb. The job I can do, the interview for the job might kill me. I tell myself that I cannot be the only person who feels this way. The only way I can do this is by assuming everyone else is making all the same mistakes and puffing into paper bags in their cars as well. Hopefully they're also consuming fudge by the quarter-pound. I hate to gain weight alone.

Death to Quality

So, at what point can I legitimately panic about not having a job yet? I graduated Friday - is now too soon? Too late? Was my panic in April spot-on? Should I concentrate on job-panic and not on the appropriateness on said job-panic?

So I graduated.

It's all official: the President of the University, the Dean of the College of Arts & Sciences, and the Dean of the English Department are all very certain that I am indeed fully qualified and very ready to be out facing the Real World of which I've heard so many tales. I am not fully convinced, but that doesn't seem to matter much in the great scheme of things.

Thus, here I am - updating after a long, long break - frantically applying to jobs and hoping that somewhere along the line quantity really does matter and eventually people will get tired of seeing my name and hire me somewhere just to get me out of the job hunting sphere. I can see that glorious moment in my mind:

"Sir, sir. I've another application. It's that Sunny person again."
"Good God, not another one. Look, is there something, anything we can stick her in? I'm going to have a seizure if I have to read her resume one more time."
"Well... there's this. It's a position where...."
"Great, whatever. Give it to her. And shred that resume when you're done. Then burn it. Then douse the ashes in Holy Water and bury them in another country. I swear they resurrect themselves and multiply when no one is looking."
"Um... yes, sir."

That, my friends, is how I will get a job. Is it noble? No. Is it dignified? No. Is it any reflection upon my abilities or qualifications? No. Until someone tells me how to find a job any other way, however, I am going to be out in the Real World - annoying for my livelihood.

Wish me luck!

Oh Dear

Well, I've now done something I'm not entirely proud of - but it's not my fault! I swear!

See, I felt somewhere close to 'just shovel the dirt over me, boys' today so, naturally, I sat in my butterfly chair, propped my feet on a kitchen chair and cleaned out my harddrive. Naturally. While doing so I ran across an essay that I wrote last spring for a creative non-fiction class. The original essay was about the written language, which was returned with the comment, 'Too esoteric. And wordy.' (Or something to that effect.) After cursing a bit - it's about 'the written language,' what other vibe can you strike with that subject? - I wrote a new, mildly sarcastic draft.

A representative excerpt is as follows (for those of you who don't want to read this - interesting - bit of literature, skip down to the bottom for the dramatic reveal of my dastardly deed):

"What synapse connected deep within the first primordial brain that suggested, “Hey man, what do you think of the letter T? It could be the beginning of that tree-thing over there. Eh, eh?” Who was the first caveperson to think of connecting vague squiggles together to represent a reality? Was this idea a passing fancy, born out of young Oglet’s mind as he pondered the sunset one balmy summer’s night? “Oh my,” did he proclaim, “Surely there must be some way for me to convey my soul’s rapture at this brilliant display of light and shadow! Quick, I must hasten to create a written language to record every ode that yearns within my breast!” Was this the beginning of writing, yet another means for teenage angst and melodrama to inflict itself upon the world? If Ug had not complained that Oglet was giving her a headache, would the written language have never risen? Perhaps, however, writing came more from necessity, a practical measure. Maybe Og took Ugo aside one fire-lit night, saying, “Ug is onto us. I think she somehow figured out the arrows that I’ve been etching onto cave walls. We gotta come up with something else.” Of course, Ugo, growing mildly weary of hiding, might have tartly suggested that Og finally do what he had said he would for ages and move out of Ug’s cave and begin chipping a new one. No fan of menial labor, Og could have responded, “Now’s not a good time, my sweet. Ug has been having a terrible time growing the non-poisonous green bush and Oglet has begun to moan about the futility of life and I can’t add to their burdens anymore right now… how about we make up a secret language?” Was it from one of these points that the idea of a series of peculiar shapes meaning a spoken sentence emerged?"

Ahem. Yes, well, I was young. And foolish. And somehow got an A, which was quite a shock in the sober light of day.

In any case, feeling poorly and amused retroactively by my disgruntlement, I felt Oglet needed an outlet to express more of his pre-livejournal woes. So, to my shame, here is Oglet's blog: Oglet's World. Updates will be - fascinating, I'm sure. Frequent is a bit of a stretch, but we'll see. Maybe Oglet has more to say than I do.

Any Port

Sadly my Spring Break is almost over. Especially sad because now I have to do all the research for the long papers that I've been putting off. If I research for them, it means I then have to actually write them. My desire is not that strong to begin research.

Still, I did get to go shopping over Spring Break! This amazing thrift store is close by, so I stopped in on my day off to browse. I don't use the word 'amazing' lightly here. Not only is the store seperated by type of garment and then size of garment, but also by color. Are you looking for a medium green blouse? Why, then, you should go to the blouse-medium-green section and take your pick! It's an OCD dream, I swear. I picked up several pieces for interviewing outfits to calm some of my panic at the idea of venturing into the Real World. I now own suit jackets. I feel so grownup.

I have made one monumentous decision aobut my future. I'm moving to Portland. The one in Oregon, if you're not like me and actually know that there's one in Maine as well. Apartment hunting has been so much easier since I realised that fact.

What am I going to do in Portland, you ask? Good question! I'm asking it too. I have no idea. Hence the panic. Which led to the suit jackets. More of a lateral move than a forward one, I suspect.

Despite almost having a degree in English, I have the nagging suspicion that there just aren't that many jobs that need me. I don't want to teach and I can't be a librarian without a master's degree, so I'm out of ideas.

Anyone need someone in Portland? Bookstore, coffee shop, ditch digger?

(Seriously, I've got skills with a shovel.)
(Well, maybe not seriously seriously, alright?)
(Unless you need a shovel-wielder, then totally seriously.)
(Seriously.)

Death and Swimming

I've moved on to the biography of Dorothy Parker, What Fresh Hell is This?, which you think would be an upper after Sylvia Plath. It was at the beginning, but now I'm wading into the end of her life and it just isn't happy getting old, especially for Parker it seems. Then, eerily, I hit on the section of Margaret Atwood's thoughts about writing where she considers that all writing is an impulse to avoid a confrontation with death. Nigh simultaneously I'm drowning in death here.

Why, avoidance, do you suggest? And heartily I agree.

Which means that the book I'm touting now is Swimming to Antarctica. What's it about? Swimming to Antarctica - and across the English Channel, the Cape of Good Hope, the Nile, the Bering Strait, and various other really cold, large bodies of water. If it all sounds a bit water-logged to you, take heart! It's actually a very engaging story that doesn't obsess over swimming terminology, water conditions, or minute descriptions of boats. Plus, there's very little death involved! It also makes one very, very glad to curl up with a sweater and several blankets with a cup of hot tea, while reading about someone else plunging into thirty-two degree water.

It's almost a pity I finished it, for my tax forms showed up. Why, avoidance, you suggest? And heartily I agree...

Books... and More Books

I think my period of deadness is almost over, which is good because, for all of the many benefits, zombies don't write blogposts very well.

I suppose this means I fail at Blog365, but I actually made it further than I expected, so I'll go with the feeling of triumph at making it through over a month. Hey, it's better than I did last November!

I've been reading the biography of Sylvia Plath, Bitter Fame, lately and that is not a book to read when you're feeling low down and blue, I've determined. Or when you're feeling exceptionally happy. So, you have to be sort of fair to middling to read it. Which is seriously limiting my times when I can read this book. In any case, she certainly had a life! It wasn't even a bad life, all things considered, if she had been less depressive and competitive.

I find myself incredibly mad at Ted Hughes now, however. Not because of himself or his relationship with Sylvia or anything, but because he burned the journals she wrote during the last years of her life. Burned them! The first two-thirds of the book is alive with her prose and turn of phrase and then you reach within two years of her death and everything's guesswork from there on out. Argh.

Her poetry is much clearer now, the book explains a lot of the symbols that cloud her verse because they mostly relate to events that happened in her life; her work is very autobiographical.

Anyway, if you've hung on this long, you should definitely read the book. Oh, and also you should read The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov. I've been enjoying it for my Russian lit class and it is a riot! The devil comes to Moscow for a visit and, well naturally, all hell breaks loose. Apparently, it's very popular in Russia even today. With good reason! It almost makes up for the fact that the next book on the reading list looks as though it could substitute in for a brick in a pinch. Seriously, I'm afraid of it. I might slip a disc trying to heft it up to read it.