n. infantile pattern of suckle-swallow movement in which the tongue is placed between incisor teeth or between alveolar ridges during initial stage of swallowing (if persistent can lead to various dental abnormalities) v. [content removed due to Bush campaign to clean up the internet] n. act of nyah-nyah v. pursuing with relentless abandon the need to masticate and thrust the world into every bodily incarnation in order to transform it, via the act of salivation, into nutritive agency

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

postcards, job, job, jobbs

EE vwuala! More postcards... each day an adventure, each day a reason to rummage across the yard, past the bunny-nibbled hollyhocks, the wild roses trimmed, the rocks falling, barrier bushes so tall I couldn't trim them adequately on a forty-foot ladder with a chainsaw-esque power-trimmer that had me convinced I was twenty seconds away from trimming the nose off my own face in a bad, bleedy sort of way. The postcards on the other side of the road-that-kills, the-road-that-also-sports all kinds of buff bicyclists to make me feel like a fat, oafish hick, either that or pitbulls that attack in the night if one (not me anymore) likes late exercise. All those postcards waiting for just a few more days, not much longer, before they end. E finito, with a few more days.

I have to admit, I had fallen behind the project for an awesome and painful five days, but today I sent the catch-up with that tremendous sigh of relief that comes from being a participant, and the pleasure of knowing that what I put out is = or > what comes back. There's something very perfect in that way feeling connected to other people has of being perfect.

Day 16, Postcard 13

postcard project
postcard project
Day 17, Postcard 14

postcard project
postcard project
Day 18, Postcard 15

postcard project
postcard project

Thanks to the emails unrelated but that don't get photogenically recognized.


I had my interview and it didn't go so horribly that I am not hopeful of a callback in the next two weeks.

Despite it going well (when I mentioned how cold it actually was in the interview room - due to my nemesis, air-conditioning, they all laughed [comedic timing] and then the HR lady actually stood up, collected a green fuzzy blanket from off a coat hook and wrapped it around my shoulders, saying I was the special one of the group. She didn't object when I said, Oh my, Thank you! Perhaps I'll just put it here in my lap, but), they did manage to hit my panic button by asking me if I was "done with all the traveling," which I guess is a genuine question after looking at the sporadic quality of my resume. I hope I replied honestly when I said that I wasn't "done with traveling or exploring the world," but done with "moving to new places." I also hope that the gods don't smite me for having mentioned getting a new puppy as a means of proving my dedication to location.

I don't know why, I really think it's a character flaw at this point, but I question why I seem to interpret "done with all the traveling" as having decided to go ahead and lie down to die.

Seems a might dramatic.

But really, that's how I feel when someone asks that question, and when they add the caveat of a 8-5 regular job, I really just feel like someone's asked me to slit my own throat while smiling about the gurgling upshot. Probably it's not all as wretched as that, but it wouldn't be exaggerating to say that I nearly get hives when someone suggests that I might be situated (or stuck) where I am for longer than six-ish months without some radical change of schedule. For some people it's flying on airplanes, for others it's meeting a snake or spider; for me, it's regularity.

Probably this is something I need to deal with.

The funny thing is that I don't interpret my friends' or relatives' lives in the same fashion. If they get a good job, I'm all balleyhoo, whether it involves nesting in one place or not. But as for me, I just think that way: staying still after six months equals brain-meltdown for this particular brain, thus death. Certainly many people somehow manage to stay smart after months in one place, perhaps by reading excellent books or connecting with wily peoples, but that's not how I'm used to adapting. I get the intellectual cooties by static living. Strange thing is: I've rather been committed to school in one spot for three years now, but because of the continuous shift in classes and related available jobs, it doesn't seem to register in the same way.

As I said, probably this is something I need to deal with.

But the job I applied for: very cool people, good vibrant souls immediately visible, and a job challenging enough that I could keep learning. The gig wouldn't be about something I automatically know, so I'd be stressed out and ornery for at least two months, and after that, still potentially challenged. I guess that sounds like a pretty good deal, despite the 8-5 M-Fr. Ug, 8-5.

For me though, it's still a very real question whether, after all that, I would still have the time to write, and write well. But the lords know, I'm not able to make use of the open time I have now, due to that eternal fiscal panic. Transition is less a friend to creativity than stasis, I think. Maybe. And Maybe.

Maybe it could work. Maybe the interviewers think so as well.

Herald says, 'Hey lady, all I know is this silky fluff doesn't come for free. I need the chow, and I need it now. Plus I'll grin at you and nibble lovingly on your paws.'

Herald, baby, you're such a Task-Master...!


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