Archive for the ‘me’ Category
1. Strange. I seem to have, through canniness and sheer force of will, sorted out some major problems in the last week, short term ones and long term ones. I am somewhat remarkable in a crisis. What will! What energy! What absolute drive to solve problems and not stop until they are solved. That’s not what’s strange. I knew about that already. (In a sense, this is why I have been successful on the job market. The job market, remember, is just one big crisis.) What’s strange is that sorting it out has left me a little bit – OK a lot bit – depressed. Almost as if I miss the stress, the joy of stress. Almost as if, despite the misery I’ve been through over the last ten days, there’s a part of me – OK a lot of me – that actually loves to live that way. Lives to live that way.
2. Mrs. Ads says to me, Yes, but we need to learn to enjoy life a bit. But we she means me. She procedes to cry rather interestingly and perhaps symptomatically through the terminal and real split-up scenes in the climactic episode of Mad Men Season 3. Telling the kids and all that. Keep in mind, and spoiler warning, it is of course Mrs. Draper who is driving this split. At least locally. On the show I mean. Hmmm… Don’t jump to conclusions – it’s way more complicated than that, as marriage always is, especially once kids and jobs are involved.
3. Art follows life. The climactic episode of Mad Men Season 3 is all about precarity, omifuckinggod precarity, and then turning it around on the bosses just before they fire you. They consolidate to save labor expenses, you heroically rise up to fuck them over by bravado and skill. Our fantasies, ourselves. For those who do not understand Americans and how they respond to things (I’ve encountered at least a few recently, as you might be able to tell) this episode would be a very good primer. Especially the temporality involved. Literally the second that shit starts to go wrong, they get down to business, chosing conspirators, stealing files, organizing a coup.
4. Someone today read the first chapter post-introduction and described it as “very sexy.” That’s a nice way to put it. Phew. Someone else (OK – Mrs. Ads) just said that there is so much of me in this book, really a ridiculous amount for an academic book. Not a single mention of me, of course. ** I think this has something to do with why it was so hard to finish. It is the most impersonal memoir imaginable, but memoir it in fact is. People say this sort of shit all the time, but it’s rarely all that true. In this case it’s true. Others have understood in a sense without reading the book: Why did you write about X, when X is the thing that is absolutely impossible for you to handle, even for a minute. As they knew, they’d already answered their own question.
5. Part of the reason that it’s a memoir, but only part, is that about 75 percent of me is made of But what do we make, really, of the style indirect libre? Sounds bleak. Part of me wishes that meant I was dry and academic, boring and office-hugging. Unfortunately it means exactly the opposite of that. These questions are hard, and running from them can take you along way in life.
6. Now that Mad Men is over till next August (oh jesus) we have to find something new to watch. I glanced at the HBO website to see what we’ve been missing and found this. It’s a precis of a series called Bored to Death:
Jonathan Ames, a young Brooklyn writer, is feeling lost. He’s just gone through a painful break-up, thanks in part to his drinking, can’t write his second novel, and carouses too much with his magazine editor. Rather than face reality, Jonathan turns instead to his fantasies — moonlighting as a private detective — because he wants to be a hero and a man of action.
The offbeat comedy series ‘Bored to Death,’ created by Jonathan Ames (author of several books, including the acclaimed graphic novel ‘The Alcoholic’), follows the misadventures of a fictional Jonathan Ames as he pursues his quixotic dream of emulating his heroes from classic private detective novels.
[post edited because I was being a dick and was rightly called out for it by someone, well after the fact... I apologize... Half of point 6 is now gone, as is point 7...]
8. Someone suggested that I ask anyone, you know, like your father, to copy-edit my manuscript. Hahahahahaahaha! What sort of world ended I up in? I told him there were only three books in our house when I was growing up, aside from the World Book Encyclopedias I begged them to buy me and buy me they did. The first, and oldest, was Jonathan Livingston Seagull, I assume a wedding present. The second was what some have called “the best business book ever,” Barbarians at the Gate which (from a highly us-centric angle) chronicled the first brush with precarity that I can remember (my dad is an extra in it, not named), and The Joy of Stress, which may or may not have been a gag gift at some point.
9. So my dad can’t copy-edit my book, no. In fact, I sent him an email to look over yesterday before I sent it, a highly important one. It took him an unreasonable amount of time to read it – like 20 minutes for a 500 word message. I sat on the phone while he did so I know. But he did, I must say, copy-edit it just the right way, taking out one line, changing a certain word. Because, readers, I won today with that message. Just wish that I could, you know, enjoy winning. But really it only makes me miss the game itself.
By winning, let me me clear, I mean that things seem to have returned simply to relatively frantic normalcy. Nothing more exciting than that.
Both the ability to win and the inability to take winning to heart, both of these things are mine because I am the conscientious only-son of an interesting man whose definining traits are his insatiable need to be anxious and his incredible ability to look calm and charismatic in a crisis.
** In fact, in the previous iteration there was a tiny, 5 pp segment on how I came up with the project before and after 9/11, and how 9/11 inflected the development of the book. Wasn’t cheesy, trust me – and involved a rather smart archive-driven history of the emergence of the phrase “the new normal.” (I should actually go back and cut that out and expand it and publish it… hmmm…) This was mentioned in a reader’s report, and made the editor flip out, rather unreasonably I think. So I’ve eradicated every drop of “I” in the new version.
Sisyphus commented on my post from last night:
Why do I think that the real story of what’s going on is hidden in those ellipses?
Well, sure. And further, what’s going on not only between the dots and other punctuations marks but even between every single letter of every single word that I write on here, is the fact that I suffer from some sort of strange and intense malady that I can only call night loneliness. I’m not sure (for all the therapy and self-centric thought!) where it comes from, when it started, really anything at all about it and its etiology.
All of you, if you’re regular readers, are aware of the symptoms that come of this malady. Logorrhea, incessant posting – that is to say, compulsive writing that brings with it the possibility of communication almost instantly.
Recurrent dark fantasy, waking soft nightmare. I am alone in the world. I have never been alone, not really for a minute, so I have no idea what it would be like. But when I imagine it, I imagine a dingy flat with a futon and a television. And I imagine myself making dinner for myself alone, heating up things wrapped in plastic. Or perhaps not heating up anything at all, just not bothering with dinner. (I am one of those people, awful, who has to be reminded – no, really, implored – to eat, who simply will not eat if left to his own devices. I will smoke right through the hunger, smoke the hunger right into null.
Anyway, I am alone and when I come home from the office, I eat or don’t. Perhaps I make my way through the newspapers that I haven’t yet finished. And perhaps after that I check the internet to see if anyone has written. No one has, or only the wrong people have, people whom I don’t really want to write back. After that is done, I switch on the television, but there is nothing on and so I stare at the endless loop of news or some godforsaken sports highlight show. And then I go to sleep.
I do this every single night, without any variation at all, over the course of my life alone, over the course of my dark fantasy.
I have always stayed up late at night, for as long as I have been allowed to determine what time I go to bed. When I was a teenager, I would stay up well into the morning, sitting in my basement smoking and typing on a typewriter and sometimes chatting (Prodigy!) or talking on the phone. The basement, with its low hanging pooltable lamp sans pool table, must have reeked in the morning. I still today use aluminum cans for ashtrays.
Was there really a time when I did real work at night? Perhaps during college, when my wife and I lived in a two-room apartment across the street from a very very famous 19th-century female poet’s house. Two rooms, but no bedroom. We had a futon that we slept on in the living room; the other room was a kitchen. I remember being very, very happy, but also worried. Would I get into grad school? Would we live in New York? We wrote our papers together, night by night and day by day. There was a room in my college’s library that was ours – a little cubicle on the third floor that no one else seemed to know about. And our computers were shit, ancient and basically good for nothing but word processing. For fun, we went to movies once or twice a week. These were the glory days of the art house stuff, the moment when the conglomerates were just catching on to the profitability of the small picture.
But what did I do at night during college? And during the first years of grad school? It’s getting dimmer and dimmer. I don’t remember feeling particularly panicked. When we finally did get to New York, and our tiny apartment in Brooklyn Heights, things start to get a bit clearer. At night, I sat in the kitchen with the window open, smoking and working on a novel. It was called The Amateurs, and was terrible. It was about a woman who became something of an amateur porn celebrity. It was terrible. I wrote it wanting primarily to make enough money to buy an apartment – this was 2001, 2002, and things like that seemed totally possible in the hopped-up, cash-rich mediascape of the only just then collapsing tech bubble.
People don’t talk about it all that much, except in the intimacy of parent-on-parent conversations, but one of the things that happens often enough when you have small kids is that dad gets ejected from the marital bed, finds some other place to sleep. This is because little kids sleep very badly, often enough, and often enough want to sleep with mom. Mom doesn’t sleep well to begin with, given all that’s going on at night, and so it’s just easier to settle into a separate bedrooms situation for the time being. It’s not good, and I’m sure that like everything else that has to do with parenting, we’re doing something very wrong, something that The Nanny would disapprove of were she to visit our North London terraced house.
If you have two children, as we do, there’s a strong possibility that just as you’ve gotten one child sorted out in the sleep department, the new one comes along and starts the cycle all over again.
Usually I get the lovely guestroom on the top floor. But when people are visiting, as my parents are now, I settle for the living room couch.
I have downloaded a shitload of films that my wife doesn’t want to watch. They include The Parallax View, Mysteries of the Organism, Crash, Gommorah, and a few others. I could easily settle down in my bed (wherever it is) and watch one of these a night, or watch until I get tired and save the rest for the next night. But I do not watch the films as that doesn’t feel enough like work to be tolerable. Blogging feels like work, work in the best sense.
When I was a very small child, or even a larger small child, I had a hard time sleeping. Obviously, there was no booze around to usher me into the arms of Oblivion. What I can remember, quite clearly, is the sound of the hockey games, the announcers of the hockey games, that my father would watch, night on night, downstairs. That and worrying about whether or not I was going to go to hell. The discovery of masturbation, when I was twelve, didn’t help with the later preoccupation, but this is cliché, rote, too boring to mention.
You can give yourself programs, plans, to accomplish at night. You could, for instance, work on learning a language, one lesson a night in a Teach Yourself book. They’re quite good – I have a smattering of Italian and Spanish (in addition to the French and German I took throughout university) because of them. For awhile, I knew enough Mandarian to do things like order dinner but now it’s gone. You could, alternately, work on a novel – promise yourself a certain page or word count per night. Or obsessively read 100 pages of something, night in night out.
But why can’t I just go to sleep, like a normal person? It’s a great mystery to me too. Some part of it has to be genetic, handed right down my mother’s side of the family. My maternal grandmother doesn’t go to sleep until she has to, and my mother was the same until the disease that she’s had (or that’s had her) since just before the time of my arrival on the scene has made it manditory that she goes to sleep at a decent time. When we’re all in Canada together, which is rare but does sometimes happen, my mother and my Nan will stay up extremely late, sitting and talking at the kitchen table. I have a sense that my first daughter has inherited the same gene – she’s just waiting, already at the age of four, for the minute that we stop monitoring her bedtime. She’s ten or so years away, and I can only imagine what she’s be up to at night when night’s are permitted her. Overly optimistic, but I’ll only be 43 when she’s 14, and perhaps just the same as I am now, and so perhaps we’ll be up together, typing into our computers, looking for the flash of light that makes all of this insomulence worthwhile, worth it. Overly optimistic – the words of a father of a four year old, I know.
The irony is, of course, that this condition requires at once a pining after late-night attention combined, perversely, with a drastic need to be alone for several hours after the sun has gone down.
At night, I can hear the trains – commuter trains and also the faster, longer ones bound for Yorkshire and then Edinburgh – rattle past my neighborhood. If I look through the window in my topmost bathroom, I can see the light standards illuminating the tracks.
Starting tomorrow, I will do something different with all of this, though I am still, as of now, not sure what.
Not really funny, more sad:
I have somehow lost, one by one and/or in clumps, almost every book having to do with my summer’s project, which happens to be the project that I’ve been working on since oh about spring 2001. I have lost (and repurchased) all of my Lefebvre. Now I notice that I’ve lost every book that I have that discusses Lefebvre’s work. I wouldn’t have posted this until I just now remembered that a few months ago I was asked to review another monograph on roughly the same topic as my own, told the editor not to bother sending the book as I had it, had read it, it was right here…. And then I had to write her back asking her to send me the fucking review copy in the mail. None of these are in my stack at home and none of these are in my office.
Maybe there’s a hole in my bag, a hole perfectly proportioned to allow only the relevant, pertitent, and manditory to fall out.
Sadly, I know very little about classical music. This is because I am American and because I have rather uncultured parents and for a long run was rather shoddily educated, especially as far as non-fundamental topics like music and art went. The only lessons I ever got in playing an instrument were those mediocre group affairs called school band. I played the trumpet like all the other boys except for the one drummer and the single saxophonist, got just past “Jingle Bells” and then gave the thing up. Eventually, during college, I sold the slightly-dented instrument at my hometown music shop when I was hard up for book and Taco Bell money.
The girls played flute or clarinet, and thinking back, I bet their choice of an instrument indexed much of what was to come for them in life, though each in her own particular way.
I do have a feeling, however, that I may be the person who has listened to Glen Gould’s rendition of the Goldberg Variations more than anyone else in the world. I can’t remember why I first picked up a recording of it – must have had something to do with some book or other. But it basically has served as my work soundtrack for fifteen years or so – I am working well, generally speaking, when I am working with this on the stereo or playing out of the computer…
I took a helpful introductory course on music during my last semester of university (the same semester I took Greek I – fun, unuseful term that was….) But I still lack the vocabulary to say anything substantive about this piece of music or Gould’s performance of it. But I think that what it handles, what it productively preoccupies, is my brain’s (my mind’s?) anticipatory faculty. I have a jutting, clambering temporal tendency – I am no good at sitting still in the moment. This goes for work as it does for non-work (though, also, possessing or being possessed by this bad temporality has a tendency to make non-work feel an awful lot like work, too…) My mind’s always on what happens next with X, where this goes from here… I would love to label this a form of romantic idealism, or classical virtu, but really what it comes down to is a heady mixture of inheritances, perhaps one simply the abstractly psychological face of the brutely neuro-chemical underpinnings. I’d rather not spell them out here, but one has to do with an adaptation to capitalist social organization and the other with addiction – two faces of the same thing, really.
But listening to Gould, as I mark papers or type away at my book, has the feeling of box ticking, of boxes being elegantly and repetitively ticked. It feels like the invisible hand inside my head that normally points elsewhere, over there, with ever greater insistence, and then which gets frustrated, over there! over there!!!!, and then when it senses that I am simply not understanding the stakes of all this, makes a fist, knocks, bangs, breaks one knuckle and then another on the inside of the skull but just keeps knocking despite the throbbing pain… It feels like this hand is empenciled, ticking boxes on an infinitely scrolling roll, a standardized test sheet made of piano notes and thus busy for the moment and leaving me alone to work and think.
And so, just to broaden this out a bit, if I am against capitalism in any sort of visceral way (the other ways to be against it seem to me untrustworthy at best, inefficient at midbest, and complicitly hypocritical at worst) it is because capitalism fosters in a not-simply-metaphorical way the evolutionary development of body parts where they shouldn’t be. Hands in head, heads in cocks, hearts in eyes, and so on and definitely vice versa. It is an open and worthwhile question the relationship of the aesthetic in regard to (in treatment of) the sort of socio-genetic defect. The preoccupation of the parts that get in the way works to two ends – more than two ends – at once. The Goldberg Variations and similiarly constructed works serve as a form of local anaesthetic (like the shots of cortisone the ballplayers take to keep them on the field) that permits me to disobey the pain-signals coming from the knocking and scratching of the hand, such that I can be momentarily free…. but free to do exactly what other than slightly more calmly follow the prescriptions of this part that spurs me on?
If you have recommendation for other things I should listen to given the above (ha!), the comment boxes are yours for the ticking and typing.
Auden sat down to write his verse . . . . He got a bare table at the end of a dark, smelly corridor. We were now bursting at the seams, and the last corner available was in what was inevitably called “the back passage”. It ran parallel with the theatre, where films were constantly being shown. At one end, a bunch of messenger boys played darts, wrestled, and brewed tea.
At the other end, Auden, serene and uncomplaining, turned out some of the finest verse he has ever written. As it was a commentary, it had, of course, to fit the picture, so he would bring sections to us as he wrote them. When it did not fit, we just said so, and it was crumpled up and thrown into the waste-paper basket! Some beautiful lines and stanzas went into oblivion in this casual, ruthless way. Auden just shrugged, and wrote more.
I’m going to pin this passage somewhere prominent as I get started on my summer work over the next week or so, once the exams and papers are finally marked. I’ve had it with my tempermentalism, my sensitivity to work environments both material and psychological. I can’t work when X happens, I can only work in situation Y, and unless A, B, or C are positioned on my desk / available for consumption / aligned just the right way, then it’s useless even to start. I’ve gotten into some deeply bad habits with work, you have no idea.
On the other hand, quite a lot of this neurotic tempermentalism is attributable to a general failure of belief. No, not in myself – don’t be silly. But in the disciplines and genres and media in which I do this work. So I’ll have to either sort that out too or simply remember to stop caring and do it anyway.
Ah, for the first time in nearly a year, there are two empty wine glasses next to an empty bottle formerly filled with shitty white wine on the coffeetable. (Jacob’s Creek, 2006. Was an excellent year for swill.) This is because for the first time in nearly a year she is drinking again, given the fact that she is post-partum enough to buy herself an hour or so without an infant either a) inside of her tum or b) mewling to be fed, right this instant.
Thank god for small mercies, we needed this today. The distribution was approximately 90% me and 10% her, but still, lovely. I missed this sort of thing. A lot.
I manage myself just as we all have been managed for the past decade, more than the past decade. Struggling with disequilibrium and underperformance, I offer myself yet another promise of soft reform – a renewed investment in rational organization, transparency and efficiency.
Instead of a superego, I have a blue-ribbon panel of Chicago School economists. Instead of an ego, I have an idealistic head of state who has long-since worked out the fact another world isn’t possible. Instead of an id, I have a dysfunctional market mechanism, taking profit just before the bonuses for the season are decided.
And Saturday mornings are when they let the numbers out. Heads shake, eyes roll, pundits yelp for reform until someone takes the podium to deliver the requisite talking points. We have a plan that we believe will restore confidence in our failing…
Ah, well she’s here and everyone’s healthy. Some things went smoothly and others distinctly didn’t, which amounted to a stressful series of days (when did all this start? Monday…. And now it’s Friday night, and only now we’re all home…), the sort of days that take months off the end of your life, but now it’s done.
My now-less-limited experience of the NHS suggests that it kicks the living shit out of what you’re provisioned, even with good insurance, back home. Efficiency, rationing, and triage are one thing, but profit has no place in the realm of healing and birthing. (It’s not really me, and it might sound a bit dunno, but I’m actually thinking about launching a wee malpractice suit against a certain hospital in Brooklyn. Pretty angry, I am. It’s not nice to hear about the clear evidence of past medical miscues – miscues that are retrospectively obvious now - from an NHS surgeon as your wife’s dripping pints of blood off of an operating table, a few hours after delivery… But the truth of the matter is, and all of you Americans have seen this, that there are so many disincentives for medical practitioners in the US to go looking for possible problems – paperwork, won’t get to go on the next Blue Cross sponsored golf weekend in Hilton Head, better money in one thing rather than another – that it’s a wonder anything is ever caught and fixed at all…)
Anyway, today, back from home with a car seat (which we didn’t end up using, the taxi driver was non-plussed by the idea of installing it) and riding the elevator up to the room, someone who was a grandmother saw what I was carrying and said, Ah, lucky. You’re taking yours home today. I’m not. Mine’s in the ICU. Mine’s three months early. But mine’s a fighter.
That’s the thing about cliched speech, speech that traffics in what they’d say if they were saying this not in real life but on television, bad television. But mine’s a fighter. I won’t say what the thing is, but I’m guessing you know. I had nothing to say back so I said, Good luck, good luck, I’m sure it’ll all be fine. And then she left the lift, a floor before mine. It was straight out of a handbook for writing the scene, she was straight out of central casting, and so was I. Wonder how it’ll end for her and hers.
I’ll be getting to the accrued comments over the next few days. Jinxing myself a bit, but Christ is it easier the second time around. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Sorry for a rough, self-centered post – had to do this one, on to other things soon, perhaps in minutes.
When I am working at work, I wish I could leave the office and go to the coffeehouse, where there are other human beings around but those other humans won’t generally bother me. When I am at the coffeehouse, I wish that I was home where I the coffee is nearly free and I don’t have to wrap the strap of my bag around my leg. When I am at home, I think to myself that I can’t really work anywhere but the office. Like the Bermuda triangle of inauthenticity that Heidegger sketches out in Being and Time, where ambiguity gives way to idle talk with gives way to curiosity and back to the ambiguity again, traps in triplicate, trialectic, are the worst sort of traps to fall into, as the illusion of choice, of possibility, is renewed just that more freshly.
Perhaps it’s not about where I work. Perhaps the fact of the matter is that this sort of work is so incredibly and so inevitably lonely. When I move around the city looking for a place where this isn’t so, I am looking in the wrong places for something that’s simply not going to be found.
Even working with someone, while it solves out some of the wider and deeper pangs, doesn’t really change the fundamental situation. There is chitchat and cross-banter, question asking and answering, distraction and aid. But those things aren’t the work itself. When the eyes are on the page or the screen, and you have reached a level of concentration sufficient to understand or make yourself understood, you are inevitably, unavoidable by yourself. Working with someone – someone at the same table or the next desk or in the bedroom upstairs while you sit in the garden – only changes the rhythm of the pressure and relief from pressure (which is also, of course, the cessation of work) but does not change the underlying equation.
In the course of my appointment this morning, I was asked whether it is the work itself that I want or something that the work will in turn give or grant me, somehow obtain for me. Something else, harder and declarative rather than interrogative, later, at the very end, left me reeling. But the first question is a good question.
So after I’m out on the street in Marylebone. I talk on the phone for a bit, and consider sitting at one of the coffee places on Baker Street, on Marylebone Road, on Marylebone High Street, but decide instead to walk toward Euston Station. It is a pleasant walk. I do it when I can, and have done it recently. You skirt the bottom of Regent’s Park – if you want you can turn in and look for Septimus and Rezia and draw the wrong conclusions like Peter Walsh does when he sees them there in Dalloway. Wrong conclusions that are also right, or right ones that are wrong.
I make my way along Marylebone Road until it turns into Euston Road, and there I stop at a Starbucks – again, one that I’ve stopped at before very recently, the one across from Warren Street Station. The plaza outside is like a tiny version of the giant plaza at the foot of the World Trade Center, when there was a World Trade Center.
At Starbucks, I write a poem. I start inside and then change to an outside table so that I can have another cigarette. Here’s what I came up with, a draft, a draft, barely more than a scribble….
The lopper’s heart of hard black plastic,
the hinge it swings its fingers on,
cold forged in diecast mold in China
and bonded to last a lifetime long,
has worn itself to crack and splinter
under the fist grip force you daily bring.
Before the seller even asks them,
you know just what his questions are:
“Did you use your tool appropriately?
Did you follow all the instructions? Can you
tell me all that happened in the seconds
before it buckled, bent, and finally broke?”
Whatever. Lines and punctuation all fucked up, yes, and things are rough in the second stanza. Lots to iron out there. Still I like the sound of the first bit and the general angle – the swing, the lop, as it were – of the thing. So I head home, but not before catching a glaring look from a woman at the next table as I read it over and over under my breath.
I do not read on the ride home. I stare. As I sit, there’s occcassionally a warm frizz of homecoming, an anticipation of the shower I’m about to have, the sun shining through the kitchen window as I eat my lunch.
Back in North London, the front door catches on an Amazon box. It’s Geoff Dyer’s Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. After Hi to my wife – she’s busy writing, writing – I read the first few pages of the novel before I have a shower.
It starts with a character named Jeff (not Geoff) in Marylebone. He mutters to himself on the street before stopping in to a Patisserie Valerie on Marylebone High Street. Jeff is a writer, seemingly less successful than his author, though not entirely unsuccessful. He is working on a piece, or not working on it.
In the shower, I think about writing a post, this post. At lunch, my wife reheats me some pizza, the leftovers of a kid-sized pizza. I lay the peri peri sauce on thickly but carefully.
… something that I wrote was recently linked to on the estimable bookforum homepage, something I wrote under my real name, in print. This is a first, and is special to me, as I’ve been reading the linkblog on the bookforum homepage since before the guy who writes it (or wrote it, who knows) was hired by bookforum, since the linkblog was just his personal blog….
Anyway, don’t bother looking, as you won’t be able to figure out which one is mine. Trust me. But still, that’s a nice feeling…. Thanks to the person who got me the work….
Man alive! The manicness! There are good, good reasons. Time’s a-getting short. But still. Let’s check the stats:
- Drinking: Way way down
- Smoking: Way way up
- Writing: Up, especially today – 1200 words of boring review at Southbank Centre on eee, another 600 tonight.
- Reading: Same, nil, except for LRB (see below)
- Paper Marking: lots, but still not done
- Abortive Blog Posts: Up, up. Two huge ones perking in the pot. And you’ve seen how many actually made it on to the site lately, so… But these are legitimate, old school AWP posts. So, you know, likely they’ll not be posted.
- Anxiety: moderate, moderate to low, spiking at times
- Loneliness: high – things get bungled and there’s no one to hang out with. I could see a movie or something I guess with my night out. London!
- Crosswords: Frumpy non-participation, nil
- Bothering people with dark depressive angst, kitchen table conversations of a certain sort and the like: still low, gott sei danke, though I’ve been a bit grumpy with all the grading to do.
- Moments spent regarding the London Eye under the the heavy lightness of England and with the soft shuffle of freepaper rustling through my ear canals? Some, grindlingly happy ones at that, makes life worth living, never enough per the malign logic of such things, see the PoS etc.
- Bolãno envy: slightly higher today after reading Michael Wood’s review in the LRB
I figure putting this stuff on display might somehow be instructive or edifying or at least comforting (by christ at least I am not like him) for someone…. And it’s a smidgen, just a smidgen therapeutic for me, or so I tell myself. But I guess I’ve blown the whole “under my own name” practice run.
I was going to make a resolution, but it seems rather absurd at this point. (There, I made it quietly… You can guess if you like…) If I go to bed now, I can get up and work some before the start of the day.
This is meant to be, I guess, dialectically related to the previous post. I would have slammed them together, but the thetical numbers didn’t look good with all of the pictures in the way:
The aura of my Macbook Pro has changed since the start of the economic crisis. The machine used to look like the latest iteration of an unceasing chain of ever-better machines, proceding from the ancient IBM Thinkpad I took with me to college (didn’t even have an ethernet slot, so I was off the internet just when the fun was starting) through some junky and less junky Dell desktops and laptops purchased through my grad school’s arrangement with the company, toward my first Powerbook and a MacBook force-gifted to my wife when I decided I needed more umpf, to this baby that I’m typing on right now and then beyond, to the thinner, better battery-life devices that I’d have next, that I’d be buying right about now. The general plan had been to keep them until there’s a year or so left on the extended warranty, buy a new fancy new cutting edge device, and then sell the old one carrying the remaining cover on eBay. But I’d sometimes even jump the gun on that plan, if the getting was good.
Gradually, over the last several months, something has slipped. I’ve started viewing my MBP not as an evolutionary space-holder, simply waiting for it’s faster, better descendent to come along and take it’s place on my kitchen table, but rather as a long-term tool, something that I’ll keep around until it dies. I’ll last past the end of the warranty; I’ll pay to have it fixed. It’s hard drive is maxed out and I spent a large section of the night deleting old duplicate photographs to make more room. (We loved you Mr. Pepys, 2003-2004 RIP, but twenty pictures of you licking your sister and hiding in an empty cereal box and gurgling at birds through the window in Brooklyn are probably all that we can carry with us into the future, given the fact I’ve only got 400 MB of space left!) Obviously it won’t be my computer for life, these things are engineered to be that, but it feels that way for now – which is a new and historically symptomatic way for me to feel, all things considered.
Of course, this reaction is entirely knee-jerk and over-ambient. I haven’t lost money in this thing (well, my TIAA-CREF account has been shredded, but there were only like $8000 in there anyway. My only investment strategy was to bet against my better instincts…. It’s like putting money down against your hometown team in the Superbowl – either way you win, sorta…. I’ll just work until I die, I suppose….) and I could still afford to keep up my stupid mac-loyalty and pre-obsolescent replacement plan if I really wanted to. *
So the question of the previous post remains: what would it take to turn my silly performance of austerity, emblematic of the behavior patterns that are leading the Italian restaurants to ply you with free booze, into something that could actually reap left-benefit. I watch myself in these things because I am normal enough, in some important ways, to work as my own canary in the c.m.
* I know. I bought the eee. But the eee is not a computer, it is a secondary device. And it cost one-sixth of what I’d pay if I were to upgrade the MBP. The point holds, I think. Unless it doesn’t.
Someone recently told me – with all or at least some of the prefacing requisite to such a statement – that I am a bit childish about work. It is not simply that I grumble about having to do things that I don’t want to do. It is that I literally at this point won’t do them. That’s not quite right. I will do them, but I do them incredibly slowly, sulkily, inefficiently. I will read a review copy of a mongraph that should take me a night or two to finish over the course of a month, more than a month. I will allow to weigh down upon me and my time until the people around me are staring in amazement: how can you still be reading that? What else have you been doing? I answer: nothing, nothing – I have been working on nothing but this. And they shake their heads, make prefatory statements about the fact that what they are about to say comes only from a caring and respectful place, and then they will call me a child – a child in a hulking man’s body, but a child nevertheless.
One of the reasons that I smoke, aside from the heroin-level addictiveness of nicotene, is because it gives me leave to stroll around the neighborhood, thinking about the things I’d like to be writing instead of the work that I’m actually doing back in my office. Today I have been thinking that I’d like to write a piece about the essential if vaporous difference between the sort of life one lives as a semi-bourgie intellectual in London vs. the one that one lives (that I might have lived in New York). The essential, the vaporous. I am not talking about playgrounds and the difference between Sunday Lunch and Sunday Brunch, although of course those things have something to do with it too, are contributory factors or maybe symptoms. It’s hard to know the difference between the one and the other.
So I smoke and I think about that and then I go into the student shop and buy the papers and some mints to hide the tobacco stink when I get back to my department, the hallway, my office. It’s just the sort of thing for Journal X I think. They would love the geography involved, and I am singing a song that their readers, demographically, would want to listen to. Perhaps I should write a bit and send it on to Y.
Back to the monograph now, and my desk, and my fancy computer. The blog allows the smokebreak to linger, to materialize itself. It is definitely a cheaper habit and less carinogenic, literally if not metaphorically.