Friday, March 31, 2006

Fun in the Sunroof

I videotaped a good stretch of my drive to work this morning by holding my video camera out the sunroof, and as you might imagine, there are some kinks to be worked out. First, and perhaps most obviously, it's tricky driving with one arm sticking strainght up out of the roof. Steering is somewhat impeded. Second, it sounded like a good idea, but really, there isn't so much you can see, especially when you can't actually frame the shot because you are too busy driving. Waving a video camera around is pretty hit or miss.
My plan was to sleep in today - you know, till like 7:30 or something, since I'll be running this afternoon - but the sun had me bright eyed and bushy tailed at 6:30. This would have been great, it wasn't so god damn cold in our place! I actually left for work early to go someplace warm - like outside. That's the irony, which I guess we'll have to wait and see how it will pan out in the summer months, that on the warmest days of the year so far its still like a cave inside. Ah, the small sacrifices we make for space.
Did you notice yet? It's Friday. Friday is in the air like stale fry oil. I love it.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Oh, Vic.

Had such big plans for yesterday - I even had big plans for my post which I had envisioned as a lengthy, complex comparison between the demise of Vic Godard and the Subway Sect and my own demise as an artist. According to some "analysts", it was their own precious attitude toward their music that really prevented them from producing more work. In one interview, Vic talks about it taking 2 years for a song to be ready for release. As far as I can tell, and I am no great music critic, they saw themselves as revolutionaries - that they were doing something that was beyond, punk and beyond rock n'roll. But really, it wasn't all that different than what everyone else was doing at the time.
So after our little dinner date with the Professor on Tuesday night it dawned on me that maybe I've been suffering from Subway Sect Syndrome. We were all strolling back to our cars, and he asked me what I imagined myself doing in 10 years. The truth is that I can't imagine anything - not in a bleak, existential sense, I just don't know and truth be told, I am embarrassed that I don't have a future plan so to speak. So, I do my best to sidestep the question by rambling a little breathlessly about my problems with the gallery system and installation work and not being sure how I fit into it. Silence. "Maybe your just haven't become involved in the community yet." This is true, I haven't. And his observation ticked me off precisely because it's true. After thinking about it, I realized that part of what I have been doing since I got out of school is the making excuse that art isn't what its supposed to be, so that ,must mean there is some other way around it. My critique, I think, is fundamentally accurate, however even I know that nothing is perfect and that the only way to get anything done is to actually do it. In a way, I have been holding art up to too high a standard. It can't save the world; it won't rescue humanity. But it does do a lot of other things. Enter Vic. Paralyzed by his high regard for his art form - really, he should have just made the damn music, like I should just be making the damn art.
In light of all these revelations, I had planned to set up my drawing area last night. Exhaustion set in and took over all my good intentions, but I at least managed to get my drawing materials our of storage. Steps. Small steps.
Also, perhaps you heard, the Beastie Boys were on Fresh Air last night. What was so great about the interview was that the three of them would get on some riff together, and Terry Gross would try to get a comment in, but they would keep talking to each other and totally ignore her. She didn't sound that ecstatic to be talking to them in the first place, so she was probably even more peeved that they kept cutting her off. I also thought it was great that she didn't seem to get some of their jokes, like one of the Beasties was talking about how during a tour your voice gets used to all the screaming and rapping, and like a runner, your voice builds endurance. Another one (I never knew which one was talking) replied something to the effect "you don't want to blow a hammy". Poor Terry could only muster an "okay....".
We could all learn a few things from the boys.

Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Pom-Poms

When I was little, sometime before the age of six, I distinctly remember wanting to be a boy. I remember the first time that I realized that this perhaps wasn’t normal and that it struck my parents as odd, perhaps even disturbing: I had a pink pom-pom, (you know, the kind with plastic pom-pom hair) and a white handle. I was running around with the pom-pom between my legs - handle pointing out the front, very intentional (I suppose) mimicking a penis. I was thrilled. I felt as I had come one step closer into boyhood. And I had done it without having to like trucks or play sports. I was a girly little girl, even though I wanted to be a boy. I liked my Barbies, and I liked playing with my mom's makeup. It always seemed that boys had more fun though; that they didn't get teased and never had to worry about, well, anything.

My mother however, must not have been so thrilled at my discovery. I don't remember the look she gave me, but it was enough to profoundly embarrass me out of my boy fantasy.
***
I mention this, because while I am nowhere near “butch”, I feel like I belong in the mens camp on a lot of issues, especially domestic ones. Last night while my class was on break I started "chatting" with another graduate student in the class (we are about 5 grad students out of a class of 40). We were talking about the nightmares of moving, and she told me that she had just moved in with her boyfriend, and so on. Then she starts telling me about how she is "training" him to clean up, to put his clothes away, to pick stuff up off the stairs. She "taught" him to hang shirts that he's worn only once inside out on the hangers. He is even so cute as to bring her water before she goes to bed.
I couldn't help but think - oh my god, she and R should get together and vent about how their partners don't intrinsically understand their domestic hygiene plan. And then I started to feel bad for her boyfriend. What kind of life is that? Feeling like you have to comply with rules that you find irrelevant? What if you don't care if there is crap on the stairs? Who gives a damn if there is mildew in the bathroom?
Of course I sympathize with this guy. I don't care about those things, yet out of love and mutual respect I do my best to play along. For reasons unknown to me, it takes a Herculean effort on my part to sweep the floor, even though it is I who without fail litter it with rice and cereal droppings. I have to consciously force myself to wipe down the bathroom counter. I am so lazy, that I put garbage items - things like wrappers and yogurt lids - in the sink until I find the inspiration to put them in the trash. I always, always leave my hair in the shower drain.

I haven’t always been this way. When we lived in Ocean Grove, I was constantly cleaning, organizing and trying to make our tiny dust bin of an apartment more pleasant. At the time, R was landscaping for Mike the insane landscaper who had a million jobs and R as his sole employee. He was out the door at 6:30 in the morning and wouldn’t get home till 11 most nights, including Saturdays. Of course he wasn’t gonna clean. All he wanted to do was sit the fuck down, not worry about how the apartment looked. I saw how exhausted he was, so I understood this. But still, there was that little tug at annoyance that this was our first apartment together and we weren’t sharing in the excitement of making it our home. And here’s where I think the real issue lies: I was on break from school, so I was working at the time, but much fewer hours than he was. Because I was still in school, and needed the money I was earning for the following semester, R was paying the bills. R was legitimately tired, there is no doubt about that. But my feeling that the weight on the home front was being pulled unevenly, had more to do with the fact that I knew that weight somewhere wasn’t being pulled right, but it was dollar weight and not Spic n’ Span weight.

In Ocean Grove, R was paying the bills, like I am paying them now. Its’ not that I like to live in filth – I appreciate a clean house, always have. But because for 3 years now I have been the primary breadwinner in our family of two, I have felt like it is not my job anymore to do the house work. This is stupid and pig headed, yes, I know. But its true. And it’s the closest I have come to understanding why I resent being asked to put my own things away.

Is this how men felt in the 50’s? Have I inhabited the body of a pre-feminism enlightened man? It does warrant further looking into how gender roles are more acutely defined by economy than we normally assume. Maybe it’s less about nature vs. nurture than it is about who’s used to bringing in the dough. The truth is, even though there exists an undercurrent of resentment at the fact that we can barely make ends meet and that its’ my job to figure out how, I really wouldn’t want it any other way. I like wearing the proverbial pants – it beats the feeling of being slighted and guilty at the same time.

Of course, we could both split the cost of everything. Wouldn’t that be novel? (Just in case you are starting to think we are some bizarrely retrograde couple, that’s where we are headed, having been delayed for various reasons.) I guess this is what most people do, and I suppose it works. I’d be really curious to see how couples who contribute equal parts financially fare in the domestic power struggle; to see whether the same guilt/entitlement still exists, or whether it starts to fall away.

At least I don’t run around the house with pom-poms between my legs anymore.

Monday, March 27, 2006

3rd Floor Peep Show

R and I finally made that trek to Ikea that we have been thinking about since we moved in in February. It wasn't just an idle, 'let's look around' kind of visit however. (We both know that those don't work, that they only increase the frustration factor and shorten my already short patience for shopping.) No. We had a plan. The idea was that as soon as we set foot in the store - before looking at anything, not even the comfy living room display when you first walk in - we would apply for an Ikea card. This way, we could buy the things we need for the studio, but not have to worry about the temptation of having a credit card that we could use for emergencies (which is every other week when the reserves start to drain). So the best of both worlds: credit, but with a specific purpose and limited scope. If we got turned down, maybe we would look around some. But not a lot.
R applied first. Your application cannot be approved at this time. You will receive notification within 10-15 days. We kind of figured as much, but it was worth a try, and besides the little computer kiosk was kind of fun to use. R goes to get his 12th cup of coffee for the day while I play with the kiosk. I shouldn't have been surprised either - Your application cannot be approved at this time. You will receive notification within 10-15 days.
So what did we do next? We looked around. For an hour and a half. We ended up buying a few small things and seeing a boat load of other stuff that we really need, mainly curtains and bookshelves. Oh well. We'll wait. Maybe by this time next year we'll have enough dough to get the curtains. And by then, who knows, maybe the neighbors will pay us to keep them off so they can see all the exciting things we do inside.

In other domestic news we finally brought the huge desk up out of storage. We hadn't done it because we thought it was way too heavy for just the two of us. So there it sat, waiting for the right moment when there would happen to be someone strong and buff to help us. We had been getting increasingly nervous about getting yelled at for it still being there, so we thought we would atleast try. It was insanely easy. As excited as I was that we finally did it, I felt a little stupid for not having tried sooner. Oops. I guess when we first brought it out of the old bathroom we were so beat that it felt 20 times heavier than it actually was.
Amazing how effective your brain can be at convincing you that something is impossible.

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Democracy of Shame

I decided to revise my earlier paper about Duchamp and socially oriented artworks instead of starting a new one. Initially, right after I finished writing it and after I got it back from the professor, I felt like I had regurgitated a conceptual disaster onto the page. I handed it in because it was the only thing I had written, but I was embarrassed to think that he would actually read it. And read it he did. Very, very carefully. I got it back with copious notes - arrows pointing all over the place, comments and question jammed into every conceivable margin. I of course learned that same class that he was also an art historian, in addition to being a professor, a lawyer, on the boards of several art committees and a whole bunch of other stuff. This guy knows his shit. It only increased my humiliation that I know almost nothing about art history, and bluffed my way through the paper. I just hadn't expected him to be armed to the teeth with responses.

On a second reading, and after actually wading through the comments, I realized it wasn't as hopeless as I had thought. I did have a point, after all, and not a bad one at that. Besides, he gave me pretty good guidance in those comments so I feel as if I am starting to make some progress in refining my argument. I get weird mixture of apprehension and laziness when it comes to writing. When you write something, that's it - you write it and effectively it’s been said, and as a result understood by the reader. That’s a scary proposition. To be clear means that people might actually take you seriously, and if you are clear and have something stupid to say, being taken seriously just makes you look even dumber.
Yet I record some pretty personal thoughts on this blog. Not soul crushingly personal, but that is just because I am not the kind of person who has a ton on dark secrets. My secrets sit pretty much on the surface, yet I don't go telling people about how I feel bout working with parents on a regular basis either. I can write here for several reasons. The first, and probably the most common, is the knowledge that I have no readership. So it feels like I am communicating to a wide audience, but really all I'm doing is sending 0's and 1's onto the web. The second is that I am under the delusion that 'Beef & Salt' is an impenetrable alias. The truth is that anyone who knew me could peg me down at this site in seconds flat. And maybe that's what I want. Even though I can border on the intensely shy side, I have a narcissistic exhibitionist tendency. I like to talk about my experiences and my opinions. I also like to take pictures of myself. (So there, I've confessed)
I think that one of the key points that I am trying to make in my paper is that while art requires democracy to exist, it is not a democracy in and of itself, nor should it be.
Break times over.

Saturday, March 25, 2006

view from the shitter

This is what you see when you look out our bathroom window, and that's all I really have to say about that.

***

Once again, it's as cold inside as it is outside. Being that it is the end of March I refuse to turn the heat up - it's spring; you don't need heat in spring. Instead I am immobilzed by cold, wrapped in wool socks multiple sweatshirts and hat. The bed is looking mighty good to go back to this morning.
And I probably will go back in the poofy depths of the blankets, since that is where I write papers (which I haveto do) and read and do everything else.
It's making me even colder looking at this picture.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Cake and B.O.

Last night was a total waste of an evening and the only good thing about it was that I got to sleep off the cold I mysteriously developed the moment I walked into work. Well it wasn't anything a little DayQuil couldn't fix, so I took two of those giant orange pills this morning and have been good to go. Except for a stiff dragging feeling in my legs, my run went pretty well and I ended up running longer than I had planned, although I think that had more to do with ending up too far away from the car to actually walk back and not catch pneumonia.

It is my dad's birthday today. I meant to go out last night to get him a gift but staying in bed was much more appealing than shopping. But almost anything is more appealing than shopping.
On birthday's, the lab has a "party" for the person and they get to chose the kind of cake that they want. (This is a new twist on this ritual - before it would always be cheesecake because that was my dad's favorite) There are so many of us and we have birthday's so often that the novelty has worn off, as has the awkwardness of denying a piece a cake. In addition to being totally neurotic about eating healthy, I just don't like cake. Period. But to turn down a piece of cake at an office party becomes an affront to the very practice of taking work time to do silly things. People take this concept seriously, and understandably so. After all it isn't often that we get a sanctioned break to stand around, chatting and kidding each other, albeit producing strained unfunny interchanges, it's a break from routine nonetheless.
But just leave me the fuck alone! I don't want you damn cake. A bunch of Marie Antoinette loyalists is what they are.

I think the DayQuil is making me sweat. I have huge pit stains on my shirt, so I am embarrased to take off my labcoat. In addition, I think that my lab coat smells, but I can’t be sure because my nose is stuffed up.
That’s is life in the lab for you: hot, sweaty and sticky with cheesecake

Thursday, March 23, 2006

A change of plans

All those "lofty" I had said that I wanted to talk about when I got the chance? They're going to have to wait because right now it is crucial for me to tell you all that

I hate babies.

No, I don't want to do weird things to make them suffer, or harm them in any way be it physical or psychological. And no, its not that I think that people shouldn’t have babies - go ahead pop em out as fast as you like - just don't ask me to baby sit.

Here's the thing: they're not cute, they smell, and the shit that comes out of their mouth isn't cute or "precocious" it's just incoherent garbage. Then there is the call of motherhood argument. Well I haven't got that call yet - thank god. I concede that some day it will probably smack me in the face and I'll be rambling like a baby myself about how I need to have a child and all that crap. What I don't understand is why, when the topic of pregnancy comes up (which is about every day now with Johana in her 7th month) I get winks and nudges and the inevitable question -'are you going to be next?

NO.

Maybe I am a little behind, but did I miss the day that 25 year old unmarried women with unstable finance were expected to get pregnant? The unmarried part isn't what bugs me - that's no big deal since marrying R doesn't even rank in the high hundreds on my agenda. But 25? That's not a little young for the 21st century? Apparently I am the only one in this lab who thinks so. Maybe it's the 'pregnancy as protection' model that has been etched into everyone’s vision of the world that causes my co workers to be so insistent.

Of course, I think what they are all really thinking is that it's just a matter of time before an "accident" happens. They know
that I couldn't possibly be planning to have a child so of course, when you don't plan you're not ready for the party when it arrives are you? I can't blame them for being right. At this point, I see that there are two explanations for my escape from motherhood thus far: either R has been shooting blanks this whole time and we've been worrying for nothing, or, god really does exist and knows that I sure as hell ain't ready.
For some reason, I'd rather not know which one.

*****

I forgot in the heat of my discontentent that I am pleased at punch that I received the new Quinton & Miss Pussycat album. Here it is, the actual object in all its glory:

It rocks.

I have taken some illicit peeks at the enclosed DVD today, but I'll watch it through when I get away from prying eyes.

I love puppets. I have always loved puppets, and Miss Pussycat has made me want to be a puppet.
(Talk about being good.)

Here! Here!

I really have a lot of things that I have been wanting to discuss here since yesterday, but I haven't had the time to sit down and do so. To whet your pallette a bit though, heres what has been on the beef & salt radar:
ridiculous copyright suits
the overly academic and poorly presented talk I attended yesterday
and
internal aesthetics.

Hopefully I will have time later in the day to get to these things.

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

On showering and the guilty cat

My wireless connection is now working, so I couldn't resist the temptation of posting while in my permanent nesting ground, the bed.

It feels weird being up so late, on a weeknight no less. I ran after work, being that when I woke up this morning it was way too freaking cold to think about running outside, and for whatever reason bed seemed like a better option than the sweaty tready. Running at night shifts the whole dynamic of the day around. First, there was the fact that I wasn't so tired at work since I got a full 8 hours of sleep. And come to think of it, I'm not tired now even though I'm up way past my bed time. It does take a bigger psychological push to get out the door after 5 though, but once you are out there you’re glad. My state of mental capacity tends to decline after 3pm anyways, so by 5 I am usually only in the mood to have dinner and crawl into bed. The other thing about running at night is that I have to be more conscious of my fueling throughout the day. I don't want to be starving, yet I don't want to have dinner or anything before I go. Showering twice in one day - before work, then later after the run - has always seemed inefficient to me and a pain. It's easier to do it all at once since showering is such a pain in the ass anyways. (I know I am probably the lone adult who still feels this way about showering, but hey, it sucks. You get all wet so then you get cold, and it’s the same drill every time you get in. Not that I am big on variety on most things, but for some reason the predictability of the taking a shower specifically is really annoying.)
Tomorrow I get to go to a lecture on aesthetics and the environment which sounds promising, on top of the fact that it's smack in the middle of the day. I do get away with a lot at work, don't I?

Well, now's not the time to shoot the nepotistic cat, is it? We've got all day tomorrow for that.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

I am not dumb. Right?

You know those moments when you realize, 'hey, I'm not as stupid as I think.', and then stuff happens and you go back to feeling dumb again?
Well I had one of those in class last night. It's fun when it happens - I start to feel like life is good and that maybe my paper is genuinely interesting and that the copious comments on my last one were because it had potential and not because it was a disaster. But then I start to get nervous. As if I were to continue feeling smart, and witty and slick I would be jinxed, and I get afraid that I am the only one who realizes that I am smart and witty and slick, the rest of the world just seeing me with my mediocre ideas and unclear language. The deceleration of this high comes pretty quickly as you can see.
Nevertheless, last night it lasted long enough to get me through 3 hours of Islamic finance and micro economics and being engaged in the topic. Amazing what a little confidence can make you do. For the first time this semester I am actually psyched to write my next paper. Get this: it might even be on economics.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Good morning, Mr. Morning

I tried out my new outdoor running system this morning and so far so good. R was at his parents' house last night since his dad is having surgery on his knee today so last night I spent my first night alone in our new place. It was uneventful to say the least. I was so hyped up about running my old route this morning though that I kept on waking up to check the time. I was pretty much awake by 3:40am, but stayed in bed trying to doze until 4:45.
All I have to say is that mornings rock.
I had been worried that it would be too cold, that I would be too out of practice for outdoor running, but once I started all was good. The sun was starting to come up at quarter to six so it wasn't pitch black out and even though it was in the 30's, it didn't feel so cold. I put in 1hr 50min and it felt great, I am only hoping that I my legs don't regret it later. The other great plus I had this morning was that I didn't have to rush to get to work since I showered in the gym here.

Oh, how its the small things that make my day: fog, The Beastie Boys just when you feel like slacking off and singing along extremely badly as you run through suburban streets.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Yesterday was spent decidedly doing anything except writing my paper, primarily sleeping, running and putzing arounf with R. I ran the 'loop' again, although it was way colder than last week. It was beautiful though even though the winds were not in my favor for the first half of the run. They expanded some of the paths around the art museum and while I didn't run it all the way to the end, it looks like now there is a bike path that goes right beside the river all the way to University City. It reminded me a little bit of Chicago, although to be honest, I can't put my finger on why.
Since we've moved, I have come to really love this city. Even though we are still on the relative outer edge, we are more 'inside' of the city than we were before. This change in geography alone has shifted my sense of being a participant in the greater orbit of Philadelphia life. I haven't done anything more particpatory in the last month and a half either, other than just live where I live, shop at the mega Pathmark or go to the local gym, but perhaps most importantly, pay attention. Maybe it's because the neighborhood is new to me that I am more atune to the details. For example, the network of crossing guards along Penn street and all the way up Oxford Ave. In case you don't know already, Philadelphia drivers are wreckless and insane, not because they are purposefully aggressive, but more so because it seems as if they are incapable of paying attention. Yet, these same crazy, sidewalk climbing drivers, turn into lambs at the sight of a crossing guard. Maybe I shoudn't be shocked that Philly drivers respect laws related to the safety of school children, but somehow, I can't get over it.
There is also the nostalgic appeal of the 'El'. I am not sure why I find it so nostalgic, considering that in the Detroit suburbs where I grew up there was hardly anything that resembled public transit, let alone and elevated train, but still, it feels as if it were a part of my past. Maybe it's a collective cultural remberance that has implanted the nostalgic feeling to 'Els', so that when we walk or drive down those dark streets with the steel framework canopy, we feel like we are 5 again.
So far today I have actually made some headway in discussing Chaplin's Modern Times (1936), so I guess it's time to make some more. In the meantime I'll be staring out the window trying to catch the train going by.

Friday, March 17, 2006

Yak, yak

I somehow manage to always be surprised when a group of people yak all day long and essentially say the samething over. I should have known: the topic was "diversity". Talk about walking on a huge steaming pile of eggshells. No one can flat out say what is actually going - which is that our institution mght lose federal funding if we don't have more blacks and latinos getting sick behind our doors, nor does anyone really know what to do about the fact that the primary problem isn't about patients choosing our center over others, but about the lack of that choice.
I have a lot of thoughts on this but my little brain is fried.

I ran outside after the meeting and it felt surprisingly easy, which leads me to believe that I've been revving it up on the treadmill. Time definitely goes by faster outdoors though - an extra 15 minutes felt like nothing today, compared to the torture it feels like on the tready.
It's time for our Friday night of exciting nothingness. Rock on!

Thursday, March 16, 2006

2 more hours and a bag of chips

I just couldn't make myself get up this morning. The guy on the "all talk" station started yapping promptly at 4:40am and I kept smacking him back down until 5:00 and then just gave in to being comfortbale in our newly raised bed and decided to stay where I was. Sometimes that extra 2 hours of sleep really hits the spot. I actually got to take a shower in my own shower, which makes this maybe only the 5th time I've used it since we've moved in.
R and I went to the dentist last night. I got my last three fillings done (3 out of 5!) and R got x-rays. I had meant to do so many things last night, but exhaustion and numbness and hunger took over. I really need to buckle down and start reading. My brain collapses after 3pm however, which makes it so much harder to work, let alone really concentrate on dense economic/social theory. It's this whole working thing. It takes up 8 big hours right in the middle of the day. Don't they know I could be getting so much done during that time. Well, I guess that's what "they" are banking on: that I will use my best hours to be productive for the benifit of mankind. Lately what I say to that is, good luck.

The good side about me sleeping in, is that I got to work early enough to scan my face!Man does my skin look bad that close. I am figuring out just how much light the scanner actually needs to read an image, and it turns out that it needs quite a bit. I'll keep trying in my solitary moments. When Johana goes on maternity leave and after Raquel has left for Spain, I guess I'll have the room to myself to fuck around in. I'll have to get some better speakers for my compy.

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Yesterday I went a little buck wild with the scanner - it's safe to say that my concentration level for work related tasks was at 0%.

Burn Triptych


The abrasion on my hand is the steam burn that I suffered while making rice last Friday. Needless to say, it hurts like crazy, but I did learn that steam can be really, really hot. Like 370 degrees F hot.

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Here's something new that I just decided to start while my stomach growls in want of tea time:

Scan of the Day.

Lacking a digital camera, a scanner is the next best thing right? Every once in a while - maybe every day, but I doubt it - I'll be scanning and posting something from in or around my work area. Boring? Of course. But that's where the scanner is and that's where I am all day, so tough.
Our Coffee Can
This is the can where we keep all the sugars and Sweet n' Low and the stolen CoffeeMate packets from Wawa. This is my mom's favorite coffee, and actually, I think it's my favorite too now that I think about it. She has to get either Maricel or now me to buy it for her because they don't sell it at her grocery store. I guess Latino culture hasn't only spread that far into their demographic.

Masters Schmasters

Being that I am finally starting to get into the groove of my class this semester, I thought that maybe it was time to briefly discuss what the hell I am doing in school anyways. So, some of you in my invisible readership might remember some of the agonizing I was doing about my lack of direction and indecision about going into an MFA program. Well something clicked somewhere along the way, I think some time in the fall, and I stopped stressing about it. Still undecided about my educational direction I settled on applying to Penn's MLA (Master of Liberal Arts) program. "Settled" because even though I am now on my way to a masters degree, a degree in Liberal Arts is as close to a degree in nothing as you can get. The advantage, as I have been telling myself and all those who ask, is that I can structure my own concentration (sound familiar..um...Bennington) and in the end write what they call a capstone project on anything I want.
When I applied, I described my interests as being in,

"....the cultural, historical and philosophical links between art and science. I am especially interested in how these two disciplines share parallel processes, and what the philosophy of those processes entails. "

I have no idea what I meant by this.
I have realized the other night in the car on the way back R's parents house that a lot of the internal struggles I have been having stem from 1)waiting for the 'aha' moment to smack me in the forehead and 2) trying too hard to justify my decision to work in the lab. The first point, was brought to my attention by R, and after a moment of thinking 'no....' I realized that he had it. Like an idiot I had been waiting for 'inspiration' to strike. I had been waiting to wake up and find my singular calling, my chosen field. (Maybe I am a fox after all).
The second point is a doozy. There is the fact that I kind of feel like I passed up an opportunity to take my work seriously my throwing myself into full time benefit laden indenture. In the back of my mind the naïve idea persists that had I stuck it out I could have started showing or what not. But I also know full well that that’s not exactly what I want either. I have always wanted more. In addition there is the knowledge that I flew into this position on mom and dad’s coattails, with nothing more than some clever manipulation on my part. This has been a big deal to me, and has colored absolutely everything I do not only at work, but in the space around work as well.

Speaking of work, it’s time that I go do some.

Monday, March 13, 2006

Clans and Tans

After all these years I still feel slightly strange among R's clan: a little too quiet, a little too awkward, and lacking the right kind of small talking skills required not to ruffle any familial feathers. Gatherings like the one we went to yesterday have always felt a little off to me. You have a group of people who do various things with their lives, some of which are pretty interesting, yet there is this unspoken refusal to talk about anything that is actually interesting. Maybe that’s how most families are, or worse, maybe my family is like that too and I just can't see it.

It was a good evening though. I love R's parents, and I especially love his Dad's sneaky deadpan sense of humor. He's speaks very, very quietly and very seldom. Sometimes he looks at you and says something, and you have to think for a minute whether you really heard what he said, and after another few seconds you realize that he said something funny. Not gut wrenching funny, but deserving of a genuine chuckle.

R and I had some good little debates on the way up which was fun. Our row on libertarianism and Christianity and the 'Fourth Great Awakening' was good lubrication for class tonight. I still haven't read everything I should have by now, but from now on I am determined: no more fucking around.

Can't wait to see the undergrads, stomachs spilling out of their jeans, wearing their spring break tans. Every time I step on that campus I am grateful I was an art major at a (granted it was snobby too, but a different kind of snobby) Northeast school.

Sunday, March 12, 2006

How Did Adrian Get in the Shower?

Was reading E.K. Hunt this morning, fell asleep and proceeded to have some crazy dreams. In the first I met some Penn advisor in the library and he was condescending and surprised that I was an MLA student who worked full time. The second dream R and I were at my parents house: my grandmother was wearing a red shirt of mine and had fallen asleep in my parents bed. The house was a mess - I had left open cardboard boxes in the kitchen, and R and I had just taken a shower, except R looked more like Adrian Brody than himself and he had a bloody nose, which I tasted when I kissed him.
It's noon already and we are supposed togo to wonderfully bleary and geriatric Whiting, NJ to have dinner with R's parents for his mom's birthday. I hate going there. R's parents are very sweet people, so don't get me wrong, it's not them. It's the place. They live in a retirement "village", village 5 to be precise, a place with neat, windy little asphalt roads and small yards and no sidewalks. The houses are all pretty much the same, which isn't unusual anymore, and they all have a 70's paint scheme and styling. What really gets me about the place is how quiet it is, and seeing the old people walking around those windy streets so slowly with their canes or in their scooters. I get this knot of desperation in my chest thinking that I may some day end up in a place like this: old with limited mobility, and even worse, with nothing to do.
Yesterday's run around the river was amazing. It was a beautiful day - around 70 degrees, sun shining. I had missed how good it feels to run outdoors, especially when its warm out. I didn't want to stop being that my leg wasn't cranky at all, but R was waiting for me to finish so I reeled it in at about 1 hr 20 min.
Crap its really getting late. Time to shower and make myself look respectable, and just count the hours before Monday and another exciting round of microarrays begin.

Saturday, March 11, 2006

no discipline

I am insanely behind in my reading for class. It's my own fault, of course, and it doesn't help that it is the first spring-like day of the season. We have the windows open, the dogs are barking like crazy, and its just damn nice out. In a bit we are heading to 'the loop' and I'll be doing my first outdoor run since mid-January. I am excited as hell, but nervous that the concrete will send some shocking aches through my leg. Its been long enough, this should be healed by now.

Maybe I'll manage to read some more Max Weber today. Maybe not.

Friday, March 10, 2006

Two Guys Walk Into a Bar...

Ok. My aunt is still a flake. I don't who I thought I was kidding thinking otherwise. So, today she has to go the Newark for a business meeting and she has the sparky idea that it would be fun to bring my grandmother and Maricel (one of the women who cares for her) along. This would be fine - Carmen loves to go out and it's good for her to get out of the house. However she was just in the hospital on Monday with gallstones. The woman is hardy and healthier than most of us a quarter her age, however she is clearly still feeling sick. She is achy, stomach hurts and she sounds a bit hoarse. This is clearly not the best time to go on an outing, even if it is to such a lovely place as Newark. Thankfully my mother called in time to very gently and diplomatically nix the operation.

Since she got back from the hospital Carmen has been amazingly lucid. The other night my aunt and I were by her bedside chatting after I had given her her medicine and she said, "back in Argentina we don't have nice things like they do here." This floored me. It has been months since she was able to distinguish Argentina as a place apart: when she talks about going home, and that her mother is waiting for her there, she speaks as if she is somewhere nearby like a cousins or a neighbors house. But the other night she might have known exactly where she was, but she knew where she wasn't. And wasn’t the least bit perturbed. She had me cracking up too. I had asked her if she was hungry, since all she had had for dinner was some Jell-O and she says to me,
'I'm not hungry. Why would I be hungry? I haven't been doing anything. You want me to a huge belly or something?'
'Don’t worry, you won't ever get a huge belly.'
'Yes I can. See.' And she proceeds to lift her arms up under her blanket to make it look like her stomach was growing, and starts laughing.
She’s always had a good sense of humor, and I had forgotten that until just now. It’s alarming how easy it is to forget how people were before they changed – she had such an attitude and a sharp tongue, which is why we fought so much when I was younger. (No time for regrets here today). And there is so much more about her that I can’t remember. She was always there, every single day of my life, and all those days have bled together into the pattern that they were. We never talked, not the way some granddaughters do with their grandmothers. When we did talk, it was usually because we were arguing, but the tension would eventually dissipate and we would neutralize into our quietness. What we did was live side by side, she taking care of me and eventually us keeping each other company once I got old enough not to need her babysitting. Now I baby sit her, keeping a much more vigilant eye on her than she ever did on me (and she was a hawk – nothing got by her). We are still quiet with each other – I because I can’t think of things to say, and she because she is somewhere else.

Talking is overrate. Unless you re making a good joke anyways.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

Shave a Piece Off For Me

Had a great run on the old tready this morning! My leg is smarting just a tad, but it was worth it. Just short of 8 miles but it felt awesome. I think that the earlier sunrises are doing me good: I have noticed that you can sense the change in light even before the sun has started to come up. Maybe it's not the light but something else I am sensing - feeling the day coming on. Any how, it has been so much easier to get out of bed at 5am for the past week and I am guessing it will only get easier. Soon are the days when the sun will rise at 5:30!

Last night I had a longish talk with my aunt, the first real conversation we've had probably since I was a teenager. Usually, talking to her requires a fair bit of eye-rolling control. She always seems to have a new herbal remedy, or Chinese cure for things like cancer or Lymes disease that she tries to peddle. For example both R and I have had Lymes disease several times, and for years she has been trying to get is to take something...some mineral? I don't remember now - but something to build up our immunity and "kill the virus" once and for all. Her claim is that this mystery compound changes the molecular structure of the disease - or something of that nature. But how? It's futile to try and get a scientific rational because even if there is one, she is not in possession of it.
On top of the Quack medicine, and more importantly, there is a sub-surface family dispute between her and my parents, particularly my father. Since my grandmothers dementia has gotten worse, the issues between them have been largely put to rest. To be honest, I have never fully understood what the actual issue between them was. Maybe it's better that way.

It is in my aunts nature to drift. To my parents who are singularly driven and grounded, her take-it-as-it-comes attitude is to them beyond eccentric and straight up irresponsible. My feelings towards my aunts behavior tend to fall more in line with those of parents, more often than not because my view has been fully marinated by their opinions. It seems as if each time she turns up on the east coast to grace us with her medicinal wisdom, she is involved in a new business endeavor. (I won't be so cruel as to call them schemes). The most recent is gold mining. I have yet to understand how a former psychologist gets involved in the international gold mining industry, but hey, maybe I am not old enough yet.
Two things struck me about our conversation last night: the first was that she was still with the gold mining thing and it actually seemed to make some sense and second, that she actually said "I have realized it's not my time to be trying all these new things. That's for you younger guys - it's your turn." This was amazing to me because for as long as I have known her she always seems to be planning her next disciplinary jump. It seems that as she approaches 60, she has actually found a sliver of a calling. A sliver.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

'Done Got Old'


Yesterday afternoon I had a brief wave of panic. I know that my job is repetitive. I know that for the past few months all I have been doing is microarrays.

But something about yesterday made it really sink in, and I had a momentary flood of desperation. It was hot and dark in the lab and the only thing I could do to fend off sleepiness was to work standing up listening to The Hives. Just as it was about over - I was getting ready to hybridize - I realized that the next day I would have to do it all again. I admit, the repetition is one of the things I actually like about this work: at a certain point it becomes automatic and you don't have to think much and your brain can be busy thinking about other things that are more relevant. Like what you would rather be doing with your life. Standing in that sweltering lab, pulling tubes in and out of the centrifuge, getting up every 5 minutes only to walk 3 feet to the water bath, or to the freezer, and back again - it was all too much. I felt, not for the first time, that my time was being absorbed into a fluorescently lit hole with little air, and most importantly, that there was a way to stop this.

If I could figure out the best way how.

Well, for now (and probably a long time to come) quitting my job is out of the question. What, find a new job? Maybe. Not if it involves daily sessions of "passing the time".

This week has been a good running week - did about 8 miles Monday and Tuesday and took it easier today because I felt some tightness in my leg. The weather is getting better - the sun shining and all that, so I want to be sure that I'm ready and pain free to start running outside again. I am a little worried about the hills on my usual route. I don't know if they will be detrimental to the healing of my leg, so I may have to find some alternate roads until I build up strength down there.

It is only Wednesday and I feel old.