Looking back, it seems I've become decreasingly funnier the last few years. As in, moving in the wrong direction. I used to be funny, or at the very least, funnier than I am now. One might say I am funminishing by the minute.
My empirical evidence for this claim is two-fold. First of all, this blog in itself serves as pretty hard-core data, with its stated intention of providing "attempts of recognizing both details and the big picture, while embracing a propensity for total randomness", which in itself is as ridiculous a sequence of words that it hardly can be interpreted as anything other than humour. The blog has, however, been fairly barren for a long while. Despite the occasional post here and there, their frequency and length (and topics) suggest that while I may still claim some propensity for randomness (in the most generous reading of the word, though in all fairness, even here I seem to fall into familiar patterns rather than my digressionist aspirations), I stand accused of not recognizing details nor the big picture, as I in fact am hardly providing any pictures (mental or otherwise) at all, since this blog mostly have been rendered empty for months, years, at the time. One might argue that this is humour in and of itself, but it would be a long stretch. Thus, I present the lack of humor due to lack of content as evidence A in this investigation and/or analysis.
Evidence B is more complex. While one might assume that you as a potential reader of this blog actually have access to this blog and therefore conceivably might be able to assess evidence A by means of peer review (though I by no means suggest you should -- I am after all asking you to backtrack my lack of posting here to confirm my claim that I have not been posting frequently, lengthy or topically in a humourous manner, which hardly stands to my credit, other than that I if nothing else can be said to be honest. Also, I realize you probably have better ways to spend your time) -- while one might assume that, you might not have the same privelege when it comes to evidence B.
I say "might", because, as will be clear in a moment, you might not have it, and you might have it.
Evidence B consists of a random selection (see, propensity for random) of Facebook statuses I have written over the past few years. If you are not in the category of the select few (or actually, quite average, I would guess) people who are on my friend's list on Facebook, you won't have access to evidence B. I'm sorry. I am sure the actual number of people who might stumble upon this who are not my friends on Facebook is actually quite limited, but given the possibility that it might happen, I am sorry. Not that we are not friends, because in this day and age it has come to a point where I no longer consider Facebookfriendiness a requirement for actually being friends, and while the more vague "being connected", via social media, is something I cherish, sure enough, occasionally, with some people, but let's be honest - it's 2017. You have "friends" on your Facebook-profile you only accepted because you didn't want them to tell your mom at the florist's in your hometown that you have become a snobbish elitist after moving to the big city. Not all Facebook-friends are friends, and amazingly, not all friends are particularly active on Facebook.
This was a long digression, of which I shall not apologize (digressions being something of a staple of this blog, after all. I don't know if you noticed the title...?), but it ended somewhere I'd like to pick it up from: "not all friends are particularly active on Facebook" (Great Digression, my mom's friend at the florist really has a point, I am quoting myself, FROM THE PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH now...)
Anyway. The "friend" I am talking about in this particular instance, is myself. Me, myself, and the person I just quoted.
Evidence B, my (let's admit it, not-so-)randomly selected Facebook-statuses (of which I shall not specify which ones I refer to, by the way, just to make the "evidence" even sketchier), are also far between, and not their former peaky, plump, juicy selves.
Not to brag, but I used to be funny (see opening statement of this blog post for reference). Funny-ish, at least. I used to make myself laugh, and seemingly others as well, as my posts occasionally would elicit comments that sometimes triggered avalances of great, old-fashioned Facebook-comedy. I used to be funny, people would be funny back, we would all do that creepy smirky-grinny-non-laugh people do when they read and write something funny on their Facebook during work hours. You know.
However, my examination of evidence B suggests a worrying trend also in this material. It is more funny the further from the present day we come, pointing at my hypothesis that I have become decreasingly funny, or as one might present it in layman's terms: I am less funny now than I was before. My funny appears to be running out (or, terrifyingly, may already have done so).
Why, then, is this happening?
I have a few theories, but I am going to do something utterly scandalous before presenting them. I am going to cliffhanger you (which, by the way, is probably not a word, as many of the words I like using, but it just struck me that this was a particularly abrasive wordsmithery of mine, as cliffhanger in itself is wordsmithed from "hanging from a cliff", I assume, meaning I just verbed ((yes, verbed)) a noun having been nouned (((yes, nouned))) from a verb ((((and then some)))). Ha!)
--I am going to cliffhanger you on this as a way of test, not yours, but mine, ability to stick to this. Yes. I am going to cliffhanger you, to see if that might motivate me, to keep writing the next section of this (otherwise insanely long) post, another day. The world is not fair. Sorry.
***HANGING OFF CLIFF***
Showing posts with label I-really-should-have-a-label-called-stream-of-consciousness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I-really-should-have-a-label-called-stream-of-consciousness. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 11, 2017
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
On a police car, four helicopters and a Canadian mountie
I must be going crazy, and I'm drinking peppermint-chocolate tea.
No, bear with me here. I could be going crazy. There is no sure-fire way of telling. My hair is too long. Or rather, it's in need of a cut. Not necessarily a get-much-shorter-cut, but a get-rid-of-the-split-ends-cut, for sure.
Jess is failing high school. It's before he becomes Peter Petrelli, so he still has that to look forward to. Or not. I don't know what happens to P. Petrelli in the end, as I never made it past season three.
My knee is making a weird noise. Icky. Rory is valedictorian. And I don't know what "valedictorian" means. I could google it. I know the gist. But there are red pandas in the world, and my boyfriend bought me a comic book.
Nick Offerman's "American Ham" is really great. But then Nick Offerman is really great too. And ham is okay, I suppose. I'm not a huge fan, even though ham is probably my favourite breakfast meat. I'm not that big a fan of "pålegg" in general. (I'm sure I've explained the oddity of the Norwegian concept "pålegg" before, so I'm not doing it again, In case I didn't, you can google it, or worse, take my clue from the valedictorian debacle and decide that you probably know what it is and remain in ignorance, while you distract yourself with another episode of "Gilmore Girls").
The turtle is staring at me judgingly. Probably because it knows I should be transcribing Henry Kissinger's notes instead of sending myself angry Facebook messages. Yes, I do that. Cruella can be truly cruel. Mari replies in kind (which is to say, not kindly).
I like seeing people happy. I think that is a sign I may not be going crazy. Or at least a good quality. Also, my laptop is running out of battery, and I'm starting to be annoyed at Lorelai. A little. We'll make up.
I suppose I should get to the point if there is one. (Or, I could plug in the laptop. That would avoid the need to make some sort of point.)
I've come to realize that one of the biggest challenges of my current line of work is to actually go to work on the days when it just isn't working. When I'm not working. Not being capable of working. When all I can do is be disgusted by the world and myself and watch "Gilmore Girls":
I've also come to realize that the valedictorian is the one wearing a slightly different robe than the rest, who holds the speech during the graduation ceremony, and I actually cried a little, during Rory's speech. It's an emotional episode.
I don't have a point, and my tea is getting cold. I might be going crazy, but at least there is another season to watch and new days to fail and fall down and stand up again. And maybe enjoy the fact that the title of this post does not match its content. Again.
No, bear with me here. I could be going crazy. There is no sure-fire way of telling. My hair is too long. Or rather, it's in need of a cut. Not necessarily a get-much-shorter-cut, but a get-rid-of-the-split-ends-cut, for sure.
Jess is failing high school. It's before he becomes Peter Petrelli, so he still has that to look forward to. Or not. I don't know what happens to P. Petrelli in the end, as I never made it past season three.
My knee is making a weird noise. Icky. Rory is valedictorian. And I don't know what "valedictorian" means. I could google it. I know the gist. But there are red pandas in the world, and my boyfriend bought me a comic book.
Nick Offerman's "American Ham" is really great. But then Nick Offerman is really great too. And ham is okay, I suppose. I'm not a huge fan, even though ham is probably my favourite breakfast meat. I'm not that big a fan of "pålegg" in general. (I'm sure I've explained the oddity of the Norwegian concept "pålegg" before, so I'm not doing it again, In case I didn't, you can google it, or worse, take my clue from the valedictorian debacle and decide that you probably know what it is and remain in ignorance, while you distract yourself with another episode of "Gilmore Girls").
The turtle is staring at me judgingly. Probably because it knows I should be transcribing Henry Kissinger's notes instead of sending myself angry Facebook messages. Yes, I do that. Cruella can be truly cruel. Mari replies in kind (which is to say, not kindly).
I like seeing people happy. I think that is a sign I may not be going crazy. Or at least a good quality. Also, my laptop is running out of battery, and I'm starting to be annoyed at Lorelai. A little. We'll make up.
I suppose I should get to the point if there is one. (Or, I could plug in the laptop. That would avoid the need to make some sort of point.)
I've come to realize that one of the biggest challenges of my current line of work is to actually go to work on the days when it just isn't working. When I'm not working. Not being capable of working. When all I can do is be disgusted by the world and myself and watch "Gilmore Girls":
I've also come to realize that the valedictorian is the one wearing a slightly different robe than the rest, who holds the speech during the graduation ceremony, and I actually cried a little, during Rory's speech. It's an emotional episode.
I don't have a point, and my tea is getting cold. I might be going crazy, but at least there is another season to watch and new days to fail and fall down and stand up again. And maybe enjoy the fact that the title of this post does not match its content. Again.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
On feelings you might be having right now
The feeling of taking the last of the Nutella because you feel entitled to it.
Of arriving late at work because you can.
Of reading one of the free newspapers taken from a stand at the bus stop, and realizing it made you think of a friend you haven't seen in over a year.
Of actually sending him a text, suggesting hanging out again soon.
Of actually getting a reply, and a positive - and specific - one.
Of listening to light jazz without having to deal with canapes.
Of being more concerned with an achy knee than all the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
Of hating yourself a little because you forgot to order your iced latte skimmed.
Of compensating for this by hating yourself more by finally being concerned with the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
"Hate" is too strong a word, fortunately. Resent, perhaps?
Well, most of the resentment is at any rate subdued by a glimmer of happiness caused by nothing other than the fact that it is summer, sunny, a relaxed mood in general (though "in general" is too strong a term - so many places in the world in turmoil, and even if the heart becomes blasé with wear and tear the morning news still affects it).
The glimmer of happiness shines, however, brighter than the ache of the heart - or for that matter the knee - fortunately.
And it is also the feeling of slight irritation that the automated blinds try to override your manual setting.
The feeling of considering whether to write what it is that really bothers you, with the risk that it will put yourself in a poor light because it isn't something you are actually entitled to be bothered about.
Of knowing, secretly, that you weren't entitled to the last of the Nutella either, but that it still feels somewhat comforting that you took it.
Of arriving late at work because you can.
Of reading one of the free newspapers taken from a stand at the bus stop, and realizing it made you think of a friend you haven't seen in over a year.
Of actually sending him a text, suggesting hanging out again soon.
Of actually getting a reply, and a positive - and specific - one.
Of listening to light jazz without having to deal with canapes.
Of being more concerned with an achy knee than all the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
Of hating yourself a little because you forgot to order your iced latte skimmed.
Of compensating for this by hating yourself more by finally being concerned with the work you had planned to do (but didn't).
"Hate" is too strong a word, fortunately. Resent, perhaps?
Well, most of the resentment is at any rate subdued by a glimmer of happiness caused by nothing other than the fact that it is summer, sunny, a relaxed mood in general (though "in general" is too strong a term - so many places in the world in turmoil, and even if the heart becomes blasé with wear and tear the morning news still affects it).
The glimmer of happiness shines, however, brighter than the ache of the heart - or for that matter the knee - fortunately.
And it is also the feeling of slight irritation that the automated blinds try to override your manual setting.
The feeling of considering whether to write what it is that really bothers you, with the risk that it will put yourself in a poor light because it isn't something you are actually entitled to be bothered about.
Of knowing, secretly, that you weren't entitled to the last of the Nutella either, but that it still feels somewhat comforting that you took it.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
On the return of light and giraffes
The sky is reflected in the windows of the nearby building, stretching out in a metallic-blue-yellow hue in between an instagram filter and something you might have found in the fabric of a skirt in the S/S13 Saunders collection, if you cared for such things. It's been a lovely day, with deceitful promises of pending spring, even though the mended heart is too scarred to believe it really is so. Winter may catch you yet. Regardless, you have this day. The day the light returned. Light, which will kick start the slow process of defrosting the marrow of your brittle bones.
In the meantime, there is this picture of a woman and a giraffe:
In the meantime, there is this picture of a woman and a giraffe:
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
On words I have yet to decide the meaning of
I have invented the following words, but have not yet decided what they should mean. Screw etymology (even though, or perhaps just because, I love it). Suggestions are welcome.
Ksnø (alternative spelling for the less Scandi-inclined: Ksneu. The k is not silent).
Yuips (best uttered when slightly tipsy, so the meaning should probably be related).
Geddlelog.
Pouiyrtre (not to be confused with Poiuytre).
Whhsnosis (thinking this might be something for the medical communtiy?).
Fogbliggerfoullervat (most likely a rather literal translation of something German).
Thank you for your attention.
(For the record, I did not invent these last 23 words. Nor the first 29 of this post.)
Ksnø (alternative spelling for the less Scandi-inclined: Ksneu. The k is not silent).
Yuips (best uttered when slightly tipsy, so the meaning should probably be related).
Geddlelog.
Pouiyrtre (not to be confused with Poiuytre).
Whhsnosis (thinking this might be something for the medical communtiy?).
Fogbliggerfoullervat (most likely a rather literal translation of something German).
Thank you for your attention.
(For the record, I did not invent these last 23 words. Nor the first 29 of this post.)
Thursday, February 7, 2013
On paaaaaaaaaacking
Packingsmackingclackinglackingbackingdacking.
It's boring, it's what it is.
I think I've mentioned it before, but I hate packing. H-A-T-E it. It's one of those things I put off and off and off and off (sidenote: listen to this reggae version of "No Surprises", it's all the catchy and silly and weird at the same time. All of it) and off and off (it's really difficult to type "and off" many times in a row, you know. Sooner or later you start typing "anf odd" and you do it in a reggae rythm, especially if you listen to the reggae version of "No Surprises") and off and off 'till the very last minute and then I'm all "OOOhhh, noooooes, I am totally stressed out because I need to pack all my stuff and I spent all this time not doing it while really I should just have done it in the first place and got it over with. Gaaaaah!!!".
This is especially true when it's actually packing *all* my stuff, for, you know, moving. Moving again. *le sigh*
Packingtrackingklackingsackinghacking.
True to form I am, in addition to putting off packing, having a crisis of sorts, reflecting over all the random crap I somehow manage to accumulate over time. It's a ton. Probably not in actual metric terms, but in actual manner-of-speech-ic terms, it's a ton. Clothes. All the clothes. Books. All the books. Jewelry-and-make-up-and-shoes-and-candle-holders-and-random-stuff-I-can't-even-categorize. All the jewelry-and-make-up-and-shoes-and-candle-holders-and-random-stuff-I-can't-even-categorize. Dust bunnies. All the dust bunnies. I am trying not to pack those. But they are here, trying to sneak into everything.
Besides, I am oddly ambivalent about this move. The place I'm moving out of failed all my hopes, so I shouldn't feel that letting go is any loss. But I do. I do feel that. Despite all its shortcomings, and the fact that I only lived here for a year, this place has held some interesting memories of mine. Important things in my life have happened here, or at the very least while I lived here. Generally, I *always* hate leaving a place. I never feel "done". Similarly, I now wonder if I gave up too easily, if things would have been different if I had acted different..?
I sound all melodramatic, now. It's the packingblackingglackingtrackingsacking talking, I swear. In reality, I am glad to leave this place. And I am glad to move into the new place. Even if it means, once again, to compile all my stuff into boxes, again, freaking out over how much stuff I have, again, and thinking that once I get settled in the new place, I won't buy anything, ever again. Again.
("Dr. Feelgood"..? What is this playlist anyway?)
Outside there is a beautiful sunset. The sky is all pink and impressionism-ish. Pollution, no doubt. I've liked the sunsets here. I've liked sitting on the window sills (I've had window sills you can actually sit on! I've always wanted that...), looking at the busy street outside. I enjoy watching my inherited globe, never mind that it's old and the Soviet Union is ripping at the seams, as its soft light blends with the view from the window.
See? Packingyackingrackingjackingbbbackingmackingnacking.
Boring and melancholic. Bad combination. I go in full procrastination mode when faced with such obstacles. Watch 6 episodes of a new drama series because the Norwegian broadcasting company will only leave them up online for another month and a half? Check. Invite boyfriend over to "help" (while in reality none of us had any intention of his visit being very helpful at all)? Check. Try to burn all the candles (so that I won't have to pack them)? Check. Airing out the entire room to avoid smoke detector inferno? Check... Have hard-boiled "what are we doing with our lives?"-discussion with unemployed 22-year old (soon to be former) flatmate ? Oh yes, check.
Paaaaaaackingpaaaaackingpaaackingpaackingpackingpckingpkingpingpngpgp.
Also, now I am procrastinating from writing my packing-procrastination post. It seriously took around 15 minutes between the previous paragraph and this one.
(And I've switched to a new playlist and I don't like this one either. They should make "this playlist will make packing less of a pain in the hind box"-playlists. Wait... Maybe they do? ((Who are "they"?)) Maybe I can google that? ((Yeah, you can google it, but the results that come up are pretty useless. Meh.)) Or maybe I should just look up "anti procratination playlists"? Nah. Later.)
(((Yeah, I know, "putting off procrastination" is an old joke. Sorry.)))
I really need to get a move on.
But the procrastination playlist I found sucked too! I may have to make my own...
Or maybe I just do the actual packing?
Ha. You would think.
Still not doing it.
Still not.
Not.
Maybe..? No. Noooo. Nonononononoo. Noooes. Nope. Nooo. No. No. No.
But...? A--no. No.
..? No.
But yeah. I guess, I suppose, it's really not doing itself, I've been trying all day ("Use the force, Cruella!"), but... Yeah? Maybe? Be efficient for half an hour and then take another break?
(The break is a lie!)
((But then so is efficiency.))
Packingschmacking.
It's boring, it's what it is.
I think I've mentioned it before, but I hate packing. H-A-T-E it. It's one of those things I put off and off and off and off (sidenote: listen to this reggae version of "No Surprises", it's all the catchy and silly and weird at the same time. All of it) and off and off (it's really difficult to type "and off" many times in a row, you know. Sooner or later you start typing "anf odd" and you do it in a reggae rythm, especially if you listen to the reggae version of "No Surprises") and off and off 'till the very last minute and then I'm all "OOOhhh, noooooes, I am totally stressed out because I need to pack all my stuff and I spent all this time not doing it while really I should just have done it in the first place and got it over with. Gaaaaah!!!".
This is especially true when it's actually packing *all* my stuff, for, you know, moving. Moving again. *le sigh*
Packingtrackingklackingsackinghacking.
True to form I am, in addition to putting off packing, having a crisis of sorts, reflecting over all the random crap I somehow manage to accumulate over time. It's a ton. Probably not in actual metric terms, but in actual manner-of-speech-ic terms, it's a ton. Clothes. All the clothes. Books. All the books. Jewelry-and-make-up-and-shoes-and-candle-holders-and-random-stuff-I-can't-even-categorize. All the jewelry-and-make-up-and-shoes-and-candle-holders-and-random-stuff-I-can't-even-categorize. Dust bunnies. All the dust bunnies. I am trying not to pack those. But they are here, trying to sneak into everything.
Besides, I am oddly ambivalent about this move. The place I'm moving out of failed all my hopes, so I shouldn't feel that letting go is any loss. But I do. I do feel that. Despite all its shortcomings, and the fact that I only lived here for a year, this place has held some interesting memories of mine. Important things in my life have happened here, or at the very least while I lived here. Generally, I *always* hate leaving a place. I never feel "done". Similarly, I now wonder if I gave up too easily, if things would have been different if I had acted different..?
I sound all melodramatic, now. It's the packingblackingglackingtrackingsacking talking, I swear. In reality, I am glad to leave this place. And I am glad to move into the new place. Even if it means, once again, to compile all my stuff into boxes, again, freaking out over how much stuff I have, again, and thinking that once I get settled in the new place, I won't buy anything, ever again. Again.
("Dr. Feelgood"..? What is this playlist anyway?)
Outside there is a beautiful sunset. The sky is all pink and impressionism-ish. Pollution, no doubt. I've liked the sunsets here. I've liked sitting on the window sills (I've had window sills you can actually sit on! I've always wanted that...), looking at the busy street outside. I enjoy watching my inherited globe, never mind that it's old and the Soviet Union is ripping at the seams, as its soft light blends with the view from the window.
See? Packingyackingrackingjackingbbbackingmackingnacking.
Boring and melancholic. Bad combination. I go in full procrastination mode when faced with such obstacles. Watch 6 episodes of a new drama series because the Norwegian broadcasting company will only leave them up online for another month and a half? Check. Invite boyfriend over to "help" (while in reality none of us had any intention of his visit being very helpful at all)? Check. Try to burn all the candles (so that I won't have to pack them)? Check. Airing out the entire room to avoid smoke detector inferno? Check... Have hard-boiled "what are we doing with our lives?"-discussion with unemployed 22-year old (soon to be former) flatmate ? Oh yes, check.
Paaaaaaackingpaaaaackingpaaackingpaackingpackingpckingpkingpingpngpgp.
Also, now I am procrastinating from writing my packing-procrastination post. It seriously took around 15 minutes between the previous paragraph and this one.
(And I've switched to a new playlist and I don't like this one either. They should make "this playlist will make packing less of a pain in the hind box"-playlists. Wait... Maybe they do? ((Who are "they"?)) Maybe I can google that? ((Yeah, you can google it, but the results that come up are pretty useless. Meh.)) Or maybe I should just look up "anti procratination playlists"? Nah. Later.)
(((Yeah, I know, "putting off procrastination" is an old joke. Sorry.)))
I really need to get a move on.
But the procrastination playlist I found sucked too! I may have to make my own...
Or maybe I just do the actual packing?
Ha. You would think.
Still not doing it.
Still not.
Not.
Maybe..? No. Noooo. Nonononononoo. Noooes. Nope. Nooo. No. No. No.
But...? A--no. No.
..? No.
But yeah. I guess, I suppose, it's really not doing itself, I've been trying all day ("Use the force, Cruella!"), but... Yeah? Maybe? Be efficient for half an hour and then take another break?
(The break is a lie!)
((But then so is efficiency.))
Packingschmacking.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
On things that are great and things that could be greater
Things that are great:
-Vacation time very soon (Hasta la vista, Noruega!)
-Cupcakes
-Giraffes (duh)
Things that could be greater:
-The speakers on my work computer. They could work.
-The situation in Syria.
-My ability to cross off tasks from my to-do-list (or rather, my ability to DO the things I want to cross off from that list)
-The banana at my desk, turning browner each day
-My scratchy, scratchy glasses (I think I need new ones)
-Cupcakes (I mean - imagine if they were EVEN greater!)
-Vacation time very soon (Hasta la vista, Noruega!)
-Cupcakes
-Giraffes (duh)
Things that could be greater:
-The speakers on my work computer. They could work.
-The situation in Syria.
-My ability to cross off tasks from my to-do-list (or rather, my ability to DO the things I want to cross off from that list)
-The banana at my desk, turning browner each day
-My scratchy, scratchy glasses (I think I need new ones)
-Cupcakes (I mean - imagine if they were EVEN greater!)
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
On construction - a manifesto
"We construct history."
My current employment force me to think about such things on a daily basis. The idea is that the questions asked will make my students think about issues they previously (possibly) have taken for granted. In reality, I suspect I'm the one learning the most from the experience. The students are goal-oriented; they have to be, given that they will need to pass their exams when the time comes. I am also eager to have them pass the exam, but I feel that in addition I have an agenda which is to not have an agenda. Studying with the
freedom to roam through personal experience in a field that has become mine with time - it's powerful.
Nevertheless, an agenda is constructed as I realize the more I learn of these things, the more insecure I become. Because, I realize, for the first time - really, properly - I am reflecting over what my field really is. What is history?
"History is not identical with the past, nor a reflection of it. The past is what we study; history is how we interpret the past."
It's my history, because I'm the one studying it. Certainly, there are limitations, and still a tendency to strive towards wie es eigentlich gewesen, even if we long since accepted that we can never completely know exactly what happened in the past. But we try to present it in ways that are as close to what you might call a "truth" (with all the limitations that term entails) as possible. We try not to invent or make up history, even if we do construct it.
I've constructed as different histories as modern Norwegian foreign policy, medieval political thought and current Middle Eastern conflict this semester. I'm working hard to tie them all to the ultimate history for a historian: why are we studying this? Why is this important? Why is history important (especially given that you just told us that we construct it, Ms. Teacher...)?
Why is history important?
It is easier, perhaps, to answer such a question in mode negative: why is not knowing history a bad thing?
A shameful and terrible accusation, that, being denominated "unhistorical" (historieløs). Having no concept of background and context, not realizing the importance of such things.
At the same time - doesn't it sound almost liberating, not having to take in the grievances of times past, simply worrying about the contemporary? Perhaps a certain unhistoricalness would be exactly what could solve troubles in well-known conflicts worldwide? What wold happen in the Middle East if no one knew what have already happened there? Can we learn from history? It doesn't seem that way. Can it aggravate us to make the same mistakes over and over again? Well... Maybe.
It is all too easy for historians, when pondering such questions, to end up without a backbone in the skeleton of our own profession. We're left with a pile of bones and no idea how to stitch them back together. Can we even call ourselves a science? Is there anything we can know for sure? Is history important?
Lesigh. Yes. Yes, it's important. Perhaps especially because we doubt ourselves. And definitely because we construct it. Certainly because - and despite - the fact that it is difficult to answer the question "why is it important?".
Everyone knows, intuitively, that history is important. Not being able to explain why, exactly, is what drives us ("us", as in "historians") to constantly question ourselves and our own profession, which in turn makes us excellent analysts. We are critical as few (several meanings of the word, yes; pun intended). We pose questions we might never get to answer satisfactorily, but we are nevertheless brave enough to ask them.
The construction of history - whether the interpretation of events past; or "history", the discipline - is key. It is what we need to do. It is what makes history important.
No wonder my students are confused.
My current employment force me to think about such things on a daily basis. The idea is that the questions asked will make my students think about issues they previously (possibly) have taken for granted. In reality, I suspect I'm the one learning the most from the experience. The students are goal-oriented; they have to be, given that they will need to pass their exams when the time comes. I am also eager to have them pass the exam, but I feel that in addition I have an agenda which is to not have an agenda. Studying with the
freedom to roam through personal experience in a field that has become mine with time - it's powerful.
Nevertheless, an agenda is constructed as I realize the more I learn of these things, the more insecure I become. Because, I realize, for the first time - really, properly - I am reflecting over what my field really is. What is history?
"History is not identical with the past, nor a reflection of it. The past is what we study; history is how we interpret the past."
It's my history, because I'm the one studying it. Certainly, there are limitations, and still a tendency to strive towards wie es eigentlich gewesen, even if we long since accepted that we can never completely know exactly what happened in the past. But we try to present it in ways that are as close to what you might call a "truth" (with all the limitations that term entails) as possible. We try not to invent or make up history, even if we do construct it.
I've constructed as different histories as modern Norwegian foreign policy, medieval political thought and current Middle Eastern conflict this semester. I'm working hard to tie them all to the ultimate history for a historian: why are we studying this? Why is this important? Why is history important (especially given that you just told us that we construct it, Ms. Teacher...)?
Why is history important?
It is easier, perhaps, to answer such a question in mode negative: why is not knowing history a bad thing?
A shameful and terrible accusation, that, being denominated "unhistorical" (historieløs). Having no concept of background and context, not realizing the importance of such things.
At the same time - doesn't it sound almost liberating, not having to take in the grievances of times past, simply worrying about the contemporary? Perhaps a certain unhistoricalness would be exactly what could solve troubles in well-known conflicts worldwide? What wold happen in the Middle East if no one knew what have already happened there? Can we learn from history? It doesn't seem that way. Can it aggravate us to make the same mistakes over and over again? Well... Maybe.
It is all too easy for historians, when pondering such questions, to end up without a backbone in the skeleton of our own profession. We're left with a pile of bones and no idea how to stitch them back together. Can we even call ourselves a science? Is there anything we can know for sure? Is history important?
Lesigh. Yes. Yes, it's important. Perhaps especially because we doubt ourselves. And definitely because we construct it. Certainly because - and despite - the fact that it is difficult to answer the question "why is it important?".
Everyone knows, intuitively, that history is important. Not being able to explain why, exactly, is what drives us ("us", as in "historians") to constantly question ourselves and our own profession, which in turn makes us excellent analysts. We are critical as few (several meanings of the word, yes; pun intended). We pose questions we might never get to answer satisfactorily, but we are nevertheless brave enough to ask them.
The construction of history - whether the interpretation of events past; or "history", the discipline - is key. It is what we need to do. It is what makes history important.
No wonder my students are confused.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
On [insert title]
I want you to think of it as a work of fiction, but one produced by an initially creative mind trained for years to think analytically.
I want you to think of me as the main character in this work of fiction. As such you’ll need to know certain things about me. Had this been a regular work of fiction, I would try to weave it in more “comfortably”, “naturally”, subtly. Perhaps a nice “the main character stares at her own reflection in the mirror before having a flashback to childhood”-scene to start things off. But I won’t be doing that.
First of all, to fit the nature of this text – as mentioned I (and by “I” in this case I mean both main character, narrator and, even, author, even though that is breaking all literary rules) have been trained to think and write analytically. I am a lecturer. I preach to my students to be specific, concrete, clear. “Say exactly what you want to say! Don’t expect the reader to know a thing!” (I also tell them to be genre-aware, which of course contradicts my current point since I am about to use the rules from one genre on a completely different one, but whatever.)
Secondly, you don’t have to know what I look like (but for clarity’s sake: tall, blond, blue eyes, small nose and ears, cheeky grin, freckles for spring, one eyebrow that leaps toward my hairline when I question something [the other one pretty much stays put]). You don’t have to know anything about my childhood (but again: happy, youngest child with two older siblings, a fair amount of precociousness that made me simultaneously cute and terribly annoying). A mirror and flash-back scene, then, would not serve the purpose of this text. Story. Whatever.
There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever.
Sorry. Whatever.
Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)
She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little.
Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four.
Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more.
She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]
She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection.
[insert footnotes later]
F.
There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever.
Sorry. Whatever.
Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)
She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little.
Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four.
Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more.
She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]
She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection.
[insert footnotes later]
F.
Friday, May 11, 2012
On social awkwardness (socwardness)
In reality - and this might be a shocker given all my quirks proudly displayed on this blog - I am a fairly socially adept person. No, really. My mom said so. (She did. Honestly.)
My mom is also socially adept, though, so it's okay. And you know how I know that she is right (and socially adept)? Because another socially adept person (me) said so. Word.
Huh. I got lost in one of my own digressions before even starting... But that set aside; digressions, parentheses, creative punctuation, giraffes and - hing yeah - the fact that someone found my blog the other day by searching for "ecard anti dance mom" (how'd THAT happen..?); all these things set aside, in real life I am a fairly normal, friendly, pleasant person with whom many people seem to enjoy a normal, friendly, pleasant conversation, be it of the "polite mingling"-variety or the more serious "what's the meaning of life?"-variety. I rock at small talk. I know how to hold a glass of wine in one hand, a canapé in the other, and somehow I still manage to find a free hand to shake hands (how many hands do I have? Party trick courtesy of the Norwegian foreign service, no doubt). I make friends easily, I have very few enemies (and then mostly carefully selected nemeses - everyone should have at least one), and when I choose to display it I can have a very winning smile. I am crisp (except when I try to use expressions like "crisp" that I clearly had to look up in Urban Dictionary before posting. And then I got stuck wondering why it's called "Urban Dictionary" and not "the Urban Dictionary", and then I started wondering if it was a Urban Dictionary thing to do to cut all "the's" and whether that won't get terribly confusing, and now I am trying so hard to be crisp or cool or whatever it's called these days that I long since punctured the above attempt at describing myself thus. Ah. Well, I was about to contradict myself anyway.)
Because.
Even though I'm mostly socially adept (sodept? Nah... I'm not crisp enough for that yet), I sometimes fail. And when I fail, I fail BIG time. Spectacularly. Think diving. Nine out of ten times I go in the water - not like a pro, but at least like an amateur that would like to consider his own diving skills appropriate for low-key competitions. Like the (or not "the") Annual Greendale Amateur Diving Championship (why, yes, Postman Pat might participate too, thankyouforasking). Only to find that the tenth time he goes in it's with a splash. A big one. An epic one. A gigantic belly flop which forever renders him (me? I got lost in my own metaphor) extremely aware that he is not only madly inferior to Postman Pat, but that he also has absolutely no business participating in any championships and that he preferable should never go near water ever again.
That's how awkward I can be on (the?) occasions that my social skills do fail.
Like today.
When they failed. Miserably so.
It all started well. I was on my way to work, not feeling terribly motivated by the fact that I had been forced to leave my warm, comfy bed to walk in grey, rainy-ish weather to go spend the day at the office where I will be teaching myself medieval history. Yeah. Motivation fail. Still, this isn't a huge derivation from normal mornings, so when I initiated this paragraph by saying "[i]t all started well" I wasn't lying. The above description is "well". It's not optimal, but "well". In the adverbial sense (--> better, best), not the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense. Well.
I was interrupted in my somewhat gloomy well-ness, however, by a young lady.
Had I been a man, I presume this interruption would have been most welcome. The young lady in question was cute, friendly (crisp?), polite and when she spoke it was with an adorable accent. Charming, I'm sure.
I am not a man. I prefer that in any given conversation I am the cute, friendly (crisp?), polite one, even if my accent (when speaking Norwegian, at least) sadly is somewhat polished and boring (when speaking English, however, I probably have an accent so adorable bunnies fly out of my nose).
The young interruptive lady asked me for directions.
I hate directions.
Well (again in the above clarified sense of the word), I don't hate them. I find them difficult to take, and to give. Especially when we're talking about geographical directions. I have a terrible sense of direction. I managed to get lost in Washington, D.C. once (a city where the streets in one direction are numbered, and the streets in the other direction are alphabetized). I also managed to get lost in Skotterud, Eidskog, Norway once - a place so tiny you probably haven't even heard of it. That's right! That tiny! Once I got lost I followed a pidgeon for three blocks. I was still lost.
Thus, asking me for directions is not exactly your best strategy if you are the one who is lost. Asking me for directions when I am gloomy (if well), sleepy and probably slightly hormonal, is an even poorer strategy. The young lady of the charming accent did not know this, of course. (How could she? She did not know anything. Not even the way.)
I realize that the build-up here implies that I somehow exploded all over the poor girl and put her in tears on the first train back to Charmingaccentville. The build-up is misleading. Yes, I was gloomy, but no, I am not explode-all-over-stranger-prone. Besides, if you look back you'll realize that there also is a build-up to a detailed account of my social awkwardness. In fact, the build-up to that is much clearer, and forms a more coherent direction for this post. You only wanted the build-up to be for something more thrilling, like an explosion, because that would make for a more exciting tale! I'm sorry, but if you want exciting tales, you better go read someone else's blog.
So. There.
I did not explode. But I faced a terrible dilemma. Should I help this cute, friendly (I'm officially giving up crisp), polite and adorably accented young lady; or should I pretend to be a deaf, Chinese tourist genetically modified to look like a native, which would both explain why I could not hear, understand OR help her?
I chose the golden middle. I decided to "help" her.
In all fairness, the directions she asked were not complicated. She wanted to get to the University Campus. I believe I have mentioned this (several times) before, but for clarity's sake: I work at the university. On campus. I was headed for work. I was clearly going the same way as she was.
Now, a normal person - for instance me on most days - would say that to the young lady. "I work at the university, and I am going there now. Follow me, and I'll show you."
I didn't say that.
After all, it would be a good five to seven minutes before we reached campus. I would have to make polite conversation with this person for five to seven minutes. Or, if failing to make conversation, I would have to tolerate five to seven minutes walking next to a stranger without speaking at all.
This is where my brain on most days would have jumped to wine-glass-and-canapé-mode and handled the situation by asking her unimportant questions like "so, what are you doing at the university?" or "did you catch the last episode of Mad Men?" (the latter would be stupid, though, because I'm two seasons behind. No spoilers!).
Today, however, the only thing my brain could do was set of a red warning lamp, saying "DANGER, DANGER, UNWANTED SOCIAL INTERACTION MIGHT OCCUR!!!"
I smiled awkwardly. Then I pointed in the general direction she (and I) should be headed, saying something about keeping straight ahead over the hill, and then she'd see it (which might or might not be true. I had never checked). And then I left.
That's right. We were going to the same place, but instead of telling her so, I went another way.
My way was the right way. Hers was... not wrong, per se. But slightly less right.
Happy that I had solved the awkward situation in such a speedy manner, I continued walking my regular route. I had sent her a few blocks east of me. (Due to my aforementioned poor sense of direction I have no idea if it actually is east, but it serves to bring clarity to the narrative, so I'm keeping it [and not, Digression's forbid, checking it. That would be - reasearch. Dude!].) My theory was that she would walk (in accordance with my vague pointing) about two blocks north (again, for the sake of the narrative), and then turn west. If she had done do, at an appropriate speed, I would have been able to walk my two blocks north sufficiently far west of her (and then turning further west) to avoiding seeing her, ever, again.
My theory, not unlike my social skills, failed.
As I was about to turn west (the whole east-west-north-thingie is confusing me. I'm sorry if it was helping you, but I am inventing a new direction for the sake of un-confusing myself. Deal with it.) - as I was about to turn uppity, whom other did I see but the young lady with an adorable accent and issues with picking the right type of people to give her dictections. Whom other? A famous sports journalist, that's who(m). But the right thereafter I saw the young lady too.
At this, my social skills performed one small effort before crumbling into dust. They waved at the young lady. Oh, Digressions, I was beackoning her closer. My hand in some evil conspiracy with my terminal social skills were trying to help the poor girl.
By then it must have been rather obvious to her that I was, indeed, going the same direction as she. Still, I was the only person about (the sport journalist having disappeared by then), and she was still lost (due to the fact that the last person she'd asked for directions only had replied with vague finger pointing...). So she ran to me (again, had I been a man, this might have been a rather welcome situation. I am still not a man).
"Soooo," I said, stretching the oooo in an attempt to come up with an excuse as to why I had been reluctant to actually offer helpful help. "What part of campus are you going to? You see, there is an upper part, and then a lower part..."
By offering this information, I really hoped she would read between the lines and hear what I wanted her to hear:
"I would have offered to walk you there, naturally, but since you failed to specify where on campus you were going, I could only assume that you were going somewhere else than me. Which makes my reaction not socially awkward, but rather rational and understandable."
"I'm going to the library," she said.
"Ah." ("Darn, right in the middle, then. Yeah, well, I'm still going to a completely different part of campus than you, and it still makes sense to me, at least, why I didn't show you the way. Even if my office is located in the building right next to the library...")
We walked. In the dreaded silence. I tried a few "uhm, yeah, well, it's not easy knowing the way if you don't know the way, hum-di-dum" but by then the effort was pretty futile. She knew I'd been trying to get out of walking with her, and thus she wasn't up to making the situation any easier on me.
At the earliest possible moment I went for the finger-pointing strategy again ("It's that big black building you see far, far behind all those other buildings over there...") and she speeded up to avoid further embarassment on both our parts. Just to make sure to stick to my "story" (you know, the one I hoped she'd read between the lines), I took a detour and walked for a while in the opposite direction from where I was going. I hoped to never see her again.
I saw her again two blocks later.
I had deliberately been walking the wrong direction, sloooooowly, to make absolutely sure that she would have passed the intersection between my detour path and the uppity-headed path. But no. She passed it at the exact time I was headed there.
In total mortification, now, I snuck back, hid (literally HID) behind the biology building, wondering how long I could stand there before she'd find me. Or before someone else might find me terribly weird.
In the end I decided that neither would be very long. So I walked - again in the opposite direction from where I actually was going - to the Physics building cafeteria. Where I decided to spend a few extra minutes buying a salad (for lunch), and a cup of coffee (for immediately).
As I swiped my card I remembered that I was running low on funds. So low, in fact, that my purchase got denied. I had to humiliate myself and ask the lunch lady to charge only the coffee. Fortunately, I had (just) enough for the that. Which I needed (immediately). And then I put the salad back.
Basically, by then my social awkwardness (yes, at least, as crisp as crisp gets: socwardness) had made me wish I could just sink into a well (of the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense) that would magically appear before me. No such thing happened.
Karma. I guess.
My mom is also socially adept, though, so it's okay. And you know how I know that she is right (and socially adept)? Because another socially adept person (me) said so. Word.
Huh. I got lost in one of my own digressions before even starting... But that set aside; digressions, parentheses, creative punctuation, giraffes and - hing yeah - the fact that someone found my blog the other day by searching for "ecard anti dance mom" (how'd THAT happen..?); all these things set aside, in real life I am a fairly normal, friendly, pleasant person with whom many people seem to enjoy a normal, friendly, pleasant conversation, be it of the "polite mingling"-variety or the more serious "what's the meaning of life?"-variety. I rock at small talk. I know how to hold a glass of wine in one hand, a canapé in the other, and somehow I still manage to find a free hand to shake hands (how many hands do I have? Party trick courtesy of the Norwegian foreign service, no doubt). I make friends easily, I have very few enemies (and then mostly carefully selected nemeses - everyone should have at least one), and when I choose to display it I can have a very winning smile. I am crisp (except when I try to use expressions like "crisp" that I clearly had to look up in Urban Dictionary before posting. And then I got stuck wondering why it's called "Urban Dictionary" and not "the Urban Dictionary", and then I started wondering if it was a Urban Dictionary thing to do to cut all "the's" and whether that won't get terribly confusing, and now I am trying so hard to be crisp or cool or whatever it's called these days that I long since punctured the above attempt at describing myself thus. Ah. Well, I was about to contradict myself anyway.)
Because.
Even though I'm mostly socially adept (sodept? Nah... I'm not crisp enough for that yet), I sometimes fail. And when I fail, I fail BIG time. Spectacularly. Think diving. Nine out of ten times I go in the water - not like a pro, but at least like an amateur that would like to consider his own diving skills appropriate for low-key competitions. Like the (or not "the") Annual Greendale Amateur Diving Championship (why, yes, Postman Pat might participate too, thankyouforasking). Only to find that the tenth time he goes in it's with a splash. A big one. An epic one. A gigantic belly flop which forever renders him (me? I got lost in my own metaphor) extremely aware that he is not only madly inferior to Postman Pat, but that he also has absolutely no business participating in any championships and that he preferable should never go near water ever again.
That's how awkward I can be on (the?) occasions that my social skills do fail.
Like today.
When they failed. Miserably so.
It all started well. I was on my way to work, not feeling terribly motivated by the fact that I had been forced to leave my warm, comfy bed to walk in grey, rainy-ish weather to go spend the day at the office where I will be teaching myself medieval history. Yeah. Motivation fail. Still, this isn't a huge derivation from normal mornings, so when I initiated this paragraph by saying "[i]t all started well" I wasn't lying. The above description is "well". It's not optimal, but "well". In the adverbial sense (--> better, best), not the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense. Well.
I was interrupted in my somewhat gloomy well-ness, however, by a young lady.
Had I been a man, I presume this interruption would have been most welcome. The young lady in question was cute, friendly (crisp?), polite and when she spoke it was with an adorable accent. Charming, I'm sure.
I am not a man. I prefer that in any given conversation I am the cute, friendly (crisp?), polite one, even if my accent (when speaking Norwegian, at least) sadly is somewhat polished and boring (when speaking English, however, I probably have an accent so adorable bunnies fly out of my nose).
The young interruptive lady asked me for directions.
I hate directions.
Well (again in the above clarified sense of the word), I don't hate them. I find them difficult to take, and to give. Especially when we're talking about geographical directions. I have a terrible sense of direction. I managed to get lost in Washington, D.C. once (a city where the streets in one direction are numbered, and the streets in the other direction are alphabetized). I also managed to get lost in Skotterud, Eidskog, Norway once - a place so tiny you probably haven't even heard of it. That's right! That tiny! Once I got lost I followed a pidgeon for three blocks. I was still lost.
Thus, asking me for directions is not exactly your best strategy if you are the one who is lost. Asking me for directions when I am gloomy (if well), sleepy and probably slightly hormonal, is an even poorer strategy. The young lady of the charming accent did not know this, of course. (How could she? She did not know anything. Not even the way.)
I realize that the build-up here implies that I somehow exploded all over the poor girl and put her in tears on the first train back to Charmingaccentville. The build-up is misleading. Yes, I was gloomy, but no, I am not explode-all-over-stranger-prone. Besides, if you look back you'll realize that there also is a build-up to a detailed account of my social awkwardness. In fact, the build-up to that is much clearer, and forms a more coherent direction for this post. You only wanted the build-up to be for something more thrilling, like an explosion, because that would make for a more exciting tale! I'm sorry, but if you want exciting tales, you better go read someone else's blog.
So. There.
I did not explode. But I faced a terrible dilemma. Should I help this cute, friendly (I'm officially giving up crisp), polite and adorably accented young lady; or should I pretend to be a deaf, Chinese tourist genetically modified to look like a native, which would both explain why I could not hear, understand OR help her?
I chose the golden middle. I decided to "help" her.
In all fairness, the directions she asked were not complicated. She wanted to get to the University Campus. I believe I have mentioned this (several times) before, but for clarity's sake: I work at the university. On campus. I was headed for work. I was clearly going the same way as she was.
Now, a normal person - for instance me on most days - would say that to the young lady. "I work at the university, and I am going there now. Follow me, and I'll show you."
I didn't say that.
After all, it would be a good five to seven minutes before we reached campus. I would have to make polite conversation with this person for five to seven minutes. Or, if failing to make conversation, I would have to tolerate five to seven minutes walking next to a stranger without speaking at all.
This is where my brain on most days would have jumped to wine-glass-and-canapé-mode and handled the situation by asking her unimportant questions like "so, what are you doing at the university?" or "did you catch the last episode of Mad Men?" (the latter would be stupid, though, because I'm two seasons behind. No spoilers!).
Today, however, the only thing my brain could do was set of a red warning lamp, saying "DANGER, DANGER, UNWANTED SOCIAL INTERACTION MIGHT OCCUR!!!"
I smiled awkwardly. Then I pointed in the general direction she (and I) should be headed, saying something about keeping straight ahead over the hill, and then she'd see it (which might or might not be true. I had never checked). And then I left.
That's right. We were going to the same place, but instead of telling her so, I went another way.
My way was the right way. Hers was... not wrong, per se. But slightly less right.
Happy that I had solved the awkward situation in such a speedy manner, I continued walking my regular route. I had sent her a few blocks east of me. (Due to my aforementioned poor sense of direction I have no idea if it actually is east, but it serves to bring clarity to the narrative, so I'm keeping it [and not, Digression's forbid, checking it. That would be - reasearch. Dude!].) My theory was that she would walk (in accordance with my vague pointing) about two blocks north (again, for the sake of the narrative), and then turn west. If she had done do, at an appropriate speed, I would have been able to walk my two blocks north sufficiently far west of her (and then turning further west) to avoiding seeing her, ever, again.
My theory, not unlike my social skills, failed.
As I was about to turn west (the whole east-west-north-thingie is confusing me. I'm sorry if it was helping you, but I am inventing a new direction for the sake of un-confusing myself. Deal with it.) - as I was about to turn uppity, whom other did I see but the young lady with an adorable accent and issues with picking the right type of people to give her dictections. Whom other? A famous sports journalist, that's who(m). But the right thereafter I saw the young lady too.
At this, my social skills performed one small effort before crumbling into dust. They waved at the young lady. Oh, Digressions, I was beackoning her closer. My hand in some evil conspiracy with my terminal social skills were trying to help the poor girl.
By then it must have been rather obvious to her that I was, indeed, going the same direction as she. Still, I was the only person about (the sport journalist having disappeared by then), and she was still lost (due to the fact that the last person she'd asked for directions only had replied with vague finger pointing...). So she ran to me (again, had I been a man, this might have been a rather welcome situation. I am still not a man).
"Soooo," I said, stretching the oooo in an attempt to come up with an excuse as to why I had been reluctant to actually offer helpful help. "What part of campus are you going to? You see, there is an upper part, and then a lower part..."
By offering this information, I really hoped she would read between the lines and hear what I wanted her to hear:
"I would have offered to walk you there, naturally, but since you failed to specify where on campus you were going, I could only assume that you were going somewhere else than me. Which makes my reaction not socially awkward, but rather rational and understandable."
"I'm going to the library," she said.
"Ah." ("Darn, right in the middle, then. Yeah, well, I'm still going to a completely different part of campus than you, and it still makes sense to me, at least, why I didn't show you the way. Even if my office is located in the building right next to the library...")
We walked. In the dreaded silence. I tried a few "uhm, yeah, well, it's not easy knowing the way if you don't know the way, hum-di-dum" but by then the effort was pretty futile. She knew I'd been trying to get out of walking with her, and thus she wasn't up to making the situation any easier on me.
At the earliest possible moment I went for the finger-pointing strategy again ("It's that big black building you see far, far behind all those other buildings over there...") and she speeded up to avoid further embarassment on both our parts. Just to make sure to stick to my "story" (you know, the one I hoped she'd read between the lines), I took a detour and walked for a while in the opposite direction from where I was going. I hoped to never see her again.
I saw her again two blocks later.
I had deliberately been walking the wrong direction, sloooooowly, to make absolutely sure that she would have passed the intersection between my detour path and the uppity-headed path. But no. She passed it at the exact time I was headed there.
In total mortification, now, I snuck back, hid (literally HID) behind the biology building, wondering how long I could stand there before she'd find me. Or before someone else might find me terribly weird.
In the end I decided that neither would be very long. So I walked - again in the opposite direction from where I actually was going - to the Physics building cafeteria. Where I decided to spend a few extra minutes buying a salad (for lunch), and a cup of coffee (for immediately).
As I swiped my card I remembered that I was running low on funds. So low, in fact, that my purchase got denied. I had to humiliate myself and ask the lunch lady to charge only the coffee. Fortunately, I had (just) enough for the that. Which I needed (immediately). And then I put the salad back.
Basically, by then my social awkwardness (yes, at least, as crisp as crisp gets: socwardness) had made me wish I could just sink into a well (of the "deep hole or shaft in the ground"-sense) that would magically appear before me. No such thing happened.
Karma. I guess.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
On ego
Hey! Hello. This is me. Moi. C'est moi.
I'm speaking to you. You. I wish I knew you. Maybe I do. But when do we really know someone? I'm not even sure I know myself.
I analyse things. It's a professional hazard. Can't help it. "Hey! Hello. This is me. Moi. C'est moi." Why "hey"? Why add an extra "hello"? Why exclamation mark for the first, full stop for the second? And why French? I'm not French.
I analyse myself. Try to see me as others do.
Students.
Colleagues.
Friends.
Family.
Boys/men.
And within these categories, each person individually.
I fail. If we can't know someone - not even ourselves - how can we even fathom the idea of knowing what someone (that we don't know) knows anything about ourselves (that we don't know), or that we can know this something they know (or don't know) about ourselves?
Big question. No answer.
Listen to this song:
Not the lyrics. They're in Swedish, and most you don't speak Swedish. "Most of you." Whether that means most people in the world, or most people potentially reading this blog. Maybe most of you (reading this blog) do speak Swedish. I don't care. Don't listen to the lyrics. Not this time. I don't. I never do. Even if I discovered that I knew these almost by heart. But I don't pay attention to them. It's a standing joke. And also true.
Don't listen to the lyrics, whether you speak Swedish or not. Listen to the trumpet. That quiet, vulnerable, wintery tone. It's spring. Kent is winter/autumn music to me. But the wintery trumpet gives me all-year-appropriate goosebumps, every time. That trumpet says more than the lyrics I'm not listening to anyway.
The guitar is good too. As a complementary - no, as a driving force for the aforementioned trumpet.
The trumpet that says anything. And of course nothing. But at least it makes me think that "nothing" is okay. Some questions don't have answers. Some answers are too complicated for us to understand. Some questions only trigger more questions. Some answers do too. And sometimes that is okay.
I don't know you. You don't know me. I don't know me. We don't know ourselves.
The trumpet. Listen to the trumpet.
It's okay.
I'm speaking to you. You. I wish I knew you. Maybe I do. But when do we really know someone? I'm not even sure I know myself.
I analyse things. It's a professional hazard. Can't help it. "Hey! Hello. This is me. Moi. C'est moi." Why "hey"? Why add an extra "hello"? Why exclamation mark for the first, full stop for the second? And why French? I'm not French.
I analyse myself. Try to see me as others do.
Students.
Colleagues.
Friends.
Family.
Boys/men.
And within these categories, each person individually.
I fail. If we can't know someone - not even ourselves - how can we even fathom the idea of knowing what someone (that we don't know) knows anything about ourselves (that we don't know), or that we can know this something they know (or don't know) about ourselves?
Big question. No answer.
Listen to this song:
Not the lyrics. They're in Swedish, and most you don't speak Swedish. "Most of you." Whether that means most people in the world, or most people potentially reading this blog. Maybe most of you (reading this blog) do speak Swedish. I don't care. Don't listen to the lyrics. Not this time. I don't. I never do. Even if I discovered that I knew these almost by heart. But I don't pay attention to them. It's a standing joke. And also true.
Don't listen to the lyrics, whether you speak Swedish or not. Listen to the trumpet. That quiet, vulnerable, wintery tone. It's spring. Kent is winter/autumn music to me. But the wintery trumpet gives me all-year-appropriate goosebumps, every time. That trumpet says more than the lyrics I'm not listening to anyway.
The guitar is good too. As a complementary - no, as a driving force for the aforementioned trumpet.
The trumpet that says anything. And of course nothing. But at least it makes me think that "nothing" is okay. Some questions don't have answers. Some answers are too complicated for us to understand. Some questions only trigger more questions. Some answers do too. And sometimes that is okay.
I don't know you. You don't know me. I don't know me. We don't know ourselves.
The trumpet. Listen to the trumpet.
It's okay.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
On purpose (or trains)
"All aboard! The train is due to leave any minute...!"
Google Translate is killing me. (On purpose.) Wish I had a babel fish. Wish I was a babel fish. Poisoned by the roe of a barbel. Nostradamus predicted my death. Death by Google Translate.
Two otherwise completely separate lives converge (not on purpose) because of mutual friends: Her. David Bowie. Charles Dickens. Arrogance. Odd fascinations. A crash is inevitable. Most train accidents appear to be crashes. Or explosions. It takes a long time to find the word "derail" in Wikipedia's list of rail accidents. The first woman to be killed in a rail accident was in 1827. In 2012 a woman hopes to survive the upcoming crash.
My nails are blue. On purpose. But they are also blue (not on purpose) underneath the varnish. It's supposed to be spring. But winter isn't willing to let go. No amount of varnish can disguise that.
Do as I say; not as I do. And for the love of Digressions, don't do as I say I do.
"The Great Artesian Basin provides the only reliable source of freshwater through much of inland Australia."[1] And there is Evian, of course.[2] Creepy babies. Terrible twos.[3] Terrible tea.[4] Better stick to water. Of the artesian kind, naturally. Transported from Fiji,[5] where "[t]he purest water comes from the purest clouds. Our rainfall is purified by trade winds as it travels across the Pacific Ocean to the islands of Fiji."[6] And then polluted by the airplanes transporting this purer-than-purest PET-bottled water to Norway, via London. (On purpose?) "Please recycle." Please, I already bought myself a pure conscience.
"I hear the train sidetracked?"
"Yes. Derailed completely. Terrible accident. Weren't you supposed to be on the train, though?"
"I was. Missed it by seconds."
"Lucky break."
Google Translate is killing me. (On purpose.) Wish I had a babel fish. Wish I was a babel fish. Poisoned by the roe of a barbel. Nostradamus predicted my death. Death by Google Translate.
Two otherwise completely separate lives converge (not on purpose) because of mutual friends: Her. David Bowie. Charles Dickens. Arrogance. Odd fascinations. A crash is inevitable. Most train accidents appear to be crashes. Or explosions. It takes a long time to find the word "derail" in Wikipedia's list of rail accidents. The first woman to be killed in a rail accident was in 1827. In 2012 a woman hopes to survive the upcoming crash.
My nails are blue. On purpose. But they are also blue (not on purpose) underneath the varnish. It's supposed to be spring. But winter isn't willing to let go. No amount of varnish can disguise that.
Do as I say; not as I do. And for the love of Digressions, don't do as I say I do.
"The Great Artesian Basin provides the only reliable source of freshwater through much of inland Australia."[1] And there is Evian, of course.[2] Creepy babies. Terrible twos.[3] Terrible tea.[4] Better stick to water. Of the artesian kind, naturally. Transported from Fiji,[5] where "[t]he purest water comes from the purest clouds. Our rainfall is purified by trade winds as it travels across the Pacific Ocean to the islands of Fiji."[6] And then polluted by the airplanes transporting this purer-than-purest PET-bottled water to Norway, via London. (On purpose?) "Please recycle." Please, I already bought myself a pure conscience.
"I hear the train sidetracked?"
"Yes. Derailed completely. Terrible accident. Weren't you supposed to be on the train, though?"
"I was. Missed it by seconds."
"Lucky break."
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
On coffee
I had one. Coffee. Black. No sugar, no cream. Thus, black. As I said. I already said that. Didn't need to specify. But I might as well. People are stupid. Common educational tool. Repetition. I had coffee. Black.
Listen. How I take my coffee doesn't matter. Besides, I change my mind about it. Frequently. I once stopped visiting a coffee shop because the guy figured out my "regular". I don't do regular. I do random.
What matters, then, is that I had coffee. Of some kind. Black, we've established that now. But the type of coffee is less relevant than the fact that there was coffee. That I had. Drank, even. You don't just "have" coffee. You drink it. It's not an asset to keep for the future. Unless we're talking about coffee plantations, or stocks, or something. But we're not. Especially not "something". I'm very specific, down-to-earth, concrete, about this. "Concrete" as in opposed to "abstract", not "concrete" as in the construction material. Abstract concrete.
It was a cup of coffee. Black, as I've now stated so many times it seems to hold more significance than I intended. I didn't intend the type of coffee to be significant at all. Only that it was concrete. Not abstract. And not a plantation. Not stocks. Plain, old coffee. That you drink. Or, rather, I drank it. I had it, then I drank it.
Now I don't have it anymore.
Listen. How I take my coffee doesn't matter. Besides, I change my mind about it. Frequently. I once stopped visiting a coffee shop because the guy figured out my "regular". I don't do regular. I do random.
What matters, then, is that I had coffee. Of some kind. Black, we've established that now. But the type of coffee is less relevant than the fact that there was coffee. That I had. Drank, even. You don't just "have" coffee. You drink it. It's not an asset to keep for the future. Unless we're talking about coffee plantations, or stocks, or something. But we're not. Especially not "something". I'm very specific, down-to-earth, concrete, about this. "Concrete" as in opposed to "abstract", not "concrete" as in the construction material. Abstract concrete.
It was a cup of coffee. Black, as I've now stated so many times it seems to hold more significance than I intended. I didn't intend the type of coffee to be significant at all. Only that it was concrete. Not abstract. And not a plantation. Not stocks. Plain, old coffee. That you drink. Or, rather, I drank it. I had it, then I drank it.
Now I don't have it anymore.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
On this
This is irony. I overheard a conversation last night. In a restaurant, in Norway. The party having the conversation was a 50/50 mix of Norwegians and non-Norwegians, so the language employed was English. They were talking, eagerly, about many topics not appropriate for this blog (for instance, let me non-appropriately mention that I now know that these ladies thought it should be called "IT engineer's crack" rather than plumber's crack). What feels more appropriate, though, is to refer to the part of the conversation I meant to address in this paragraph:
(only now it's not in that paragraph anymore)
(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)
"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"
This is irony.
Let me translate.
"What's vocabulary in English?"
This is irony.
This is not:
I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.
Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.
Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).
What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?
Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.
Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.
And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.
Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:
Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).
(only now it's not in that paragraph anymore)
(or this one. Also - this part of the conversation was not in English, for reasons that shall be revealed)
"Hva heter ordforråd på engelsk?"
This is irony.
Let me translate.
"What's vocabulary in English?"
This is irony.
This is not:
I'm having a Facebook detox experience. Meaning I'm off the drug, cold turkey. This week only - I wouldn't dream of quitting altogether - but still. I needed to prove to myself that I could. And I needed to break the destructive pattern I've been stuck in there for a while. If you logged off two minutes ago, chances are not much new will have happened when you compulsively opens the window again for the 19th time that day.
Interestingly enough, the thing that finally made me realize it was a bad habit I could break was the introduction of Facebook's new timeline. I love it. And I don't see the issues so many people seem to have with it. Okay, so the timeline makes it a lot easier to see what you were up to on Facebook three years ago. So what? You posted that three years ago, knowing well that you yourself was responsible for the content. If you can't handle it today, chances are you shouldn't have posted it back then.
Personally, though, I look back and remember happier times. Sadder times. Different times. I find it interesting to see my own (less destructive?) patterns - how I for weeks would post nothing but rants about my thesis (not unlike what I did on this blog), or the weather, or - believe it or not - what I actually was doing. "CC is at work" or "CC is about to go for a walk". (Did you remember the "is"? I'd almost forgotten) I was more boring in the past. My current updates are more amusing (but also an aqcuired taste. I like to think that those who haven't gotten used to it unsubscribed from me ages ago).
What perhaps surprised me the most, though, was how little I posted in the past. It seemed as though, perhaps, I didn't visit the site more than once or twice a day. Huh. How did that work?
Like with the missing status update "is", I had forgotten that my Facebook life once consisted of different patterns than it does now. I once knew how to limit my own use.
Thus, the discovery of a younger, naïver, funny-but-not-quite-as-clever self, through the help of the Facebook timeline, helped me realize I could just quit. For a while. This is irony, I suppose.
And yes. This. Irony. Charles Dickens (happy birthday yesterday, old man!) had it right. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". In a way I am happier with my life at the moment than I've been for as long as I can remember. In a way I am not at all. I compartmentalize. Try to accept that I don't have to know everything, professionally and personally. I enjoy a great many things, hate a great many others. It's the hardest time of year for me - when winter is loosening its grip but spring still is aeons away. I long for spring. Or for getting away. At the same time as there is nowhere I'd rather be, than right here, right now. I went ice skating this weekend. And I watched an incredulous amount of "Sex and the City". I'm in Carrie-overload, the greatest philosopher of our time. I listen to Eels and Wilco, trying to catch the lyrics. But I only hear voices and instruments. I miss writing. Yesterday reminded me. I'm rusty and my writer's confidence is at an all time low, but I miss it. I wish I had the strenght to tell myself to take it up again, the way I managed to tell myself to quit Facebook. Once I decided, it was so much easier than I'd thought.
Is it irony that we all know the first part of that Dickens quote, but most of us have no idea what comes next? It's not his most famous work, after all, even if it probably is the most famous quote:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.
Indeed. 'Tis a good quote (even if I generally despise quotes).
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
On Botswana
This post has nothing to do with Botswana.
I just needed a title. A working title, if you will. But if you won't, you'd be more correct, because it has effectively ceased to be a working title now that I've commented on it. Otherwise the comment wouldn't make sense. And then I'd have to change the introduction to this post. I'd be a working post.
I won't change the introduction or title of this post. Even though it has exceptionally little to do with Botswana.
It has exceptionally little to do with most things, actually. Though, "actually", it's not that hard to not discuss most things. Even if I were to discuss coffee filters, telephones, snow, sunsets, polka-dot dresses, cartoons, albatrosses, fiddlers, mid-century furniture, lollipops and single-cell animals - which I am not - the things-packed post I'd have written would still not discuss "most things". All the above mentioned things are, after all, a minority when it comes to things in general. All the things. This wasn't even a sizeable sample.
A post that has nothing to do with Botswana or most things.
It also has nothing to do with Lionel Richie. (Well, I suppose now it sort of does...)
I can see the postman. But the non-Botswana post also has nothing to do with that. Maybe I should write a post-post sometime? And then the day thereafter I can write a post post-post. Ha. Sometimes I'm too funny for my own good...
I am too [insert multiple adjectives] for my own good, actually. My mind is everywhere else than where it should be. Or... "Should" should be a matter of definition. One should have one's mind where I have mine right now, occasionally. (That sounded naughty. It isn't. Not really. The answer to the question I'm sure y'all are desperate to ask - "where??" - is not "the gutter". For once.) But one should perhaps not have one's mind there when one is trying to work. Or write posts that are or are not about Botswana.
Actually, here's a Botswana-related thing (out of all the things) after all. I learned yesterday that Botswana has a remarkably well-functioning economy, with the highest growth rate in the world. There. Title justified.
I just needed a title. A working title, if you will. But if you won't, you'd be more correct, because it has effectively ceased to be a working title now that I've commented on it. Otherwise the comment wouldn't make sense. And then I'd have to change the introduction to this post. I'd be a working post.
I won't change the introduction or title of this post. Even though it has exceptionally little to do with Botswana.
It has exceptionally little to do with most things, actually. Though, "actually", it's not that hard to not discuss most things. Even if I were to discuss coffee filters, telephones, snow, sunsets, polka-dot dresses, cartoons, albatrosses, fiddlers, mid-century furniture, lollipops and single-cell animals - which I am not - the things-packed post I'd have written would still not discuss "most things". All the above mentioned things are, after all, a minority when it comes to things in general. All the things. This wasn't even a sizeable sample.
A post that has nothing to do with Botswana or most things.
It also has nothing to do with Lionel Richie. (Well, I suppose now it sort of does...)
I can see the postman. But the non-Botswana post also has nothing to do with that. Maybe I should write a post-post sometime? And then the day thereafter I can write a post post-post. Ha. Sometimes I'm too funny for my own good...
I am too [insert multiple adjectives] for my own good, actually. My mind is everywhere else than where it should be. Or... "Should" should be a matter of definition. One should have one's mind where I have mine right now, occasionally. (That sounded naughty. It isn't. Not really. The answer to the question I'm sure y'all are desperate to ask - "where??" - is not "the gutter". For once.) But one should perhaps not have one's mind there when one is trying to work. Or write posts that are or are not about Botswana.
Work. Concentration. Reading. Thinking. Planning. Planning... Hoping? Dreaming? Wanting?
 |
| Sheep. |
 |
| Cookie. |
Actually, here's a Botswana-related thing (out of all the things) after all. I learned yesterday that Botswana has a remarkably well-functioning economy, with the highest growth rate in the world. There. Title justified.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
On decency and safety: how playing it safe occasionally is hazardous
This is a tale of the importance of a safety pin, and how choosing safety in one department, very well might put you at risk in another.
Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.
For instance. I have a reflex.
Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)
The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!
Yes, what about Alaska?
Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:
"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"
Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...
I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)
Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.
However, that might be subject to change.
On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.
Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?
I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.
So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.
The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.
As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.
And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)
It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.
At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.
This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.
It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.
Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.
In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.
Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.
So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.
The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:
"Reflexes save lives"; and
"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."
I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.
The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.
Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.
For instance. I have a reflex.
Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)
The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!
Yes, what about Alaska?
Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:
"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"
Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...
I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)
Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.
However, that might be subject to change.
On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.
Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?
I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.
So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.
The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.
As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.
And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)
It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.
At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.
This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.
It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.
Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.
In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.
Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.
So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.
The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:
"Reflexes save lives"; and
"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."
I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.
The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
On randouvites, part three
These are a few of my current randouvite things:
Cucumbers. Small ones.
My most recent playlist on Spotify. Not that I'm letting you in on the songs thereof.
Danish newspapers. Haha. Seriously, though.
The colour mustard yellow. And how it totally goes with green. And navy blue.
Candles.
My creepy mp3-player. It's creepy because even if I keep it on "shuffle", every day when I come from work it starts playing Simon & Garfunkel's "A Hazy Shade of Winter" as I pass the exact same house. Seriously. This has happened four times now. (And no, that song is not on my playlist. Ha!)
A hazy shade of wintery sunrises even if it's still autumn. But our light is leaving. So it's nice to cherish the sunrises we have. (Okay, our light isn't leaving, per se, but we have less of it now. We're reaching the point where you leave the house in darkness, and come back home after work in darkness.)
Mmmoney. Let's be honest. We all love it. I love having some again. Even if I'm still quite broke.
Reading time with my nephews.
Having a beer with friends after work. That I have friends. And work.
Fleet Foxes. (Went to their concert - they are seriously AMAZING!) (Fine. Yes. They are represented on my playlist)
That November is moving forward, at a reasonable pace.
My red lipgloss. Rrrred!
That the Oslo-metro system is all in the same price zone now. Man, that bothered me before!
Dates. As in the fruit. Dried. Other meanings of the word? Meh.
Candles. (Yes, I know I already said that)
Daydreaming.
The smell of cold in the air in the morning.
That it isn't raining. Not always.
That I can be as weird as I like in the privacy of my own office (and on my own blog, apparently).
The word "seriously".
Cucumbers. Small ones.
My most recent playlist on Spotify. Not that I'm letting you in on the songs thereof.
Danish newspapers. Haha. Seriously, though.
The colour mustard yellow. And how it totally goes with green. And navy blue.
Candles.
My creepy mp3-player. It's creepy because even if I keep it on "shuffle", every day when I come from work it starts playing Simon & Garfunkel's "A Hazy Shade of Winter" as I pass the exact same house. Seriously. This has happened four times now. (And no, that song is not on my playlist. Ha!)
A hazy shade of wintery sunrises even if it's still autumn. But our light is leaving. So it's nice to cherish the sunrises we have. (Okay, our light isn't leaving, per se, but we have less of it now. We're reaching the point where you leave the house in darkness, and come back home after work in darkness.)
Mmmoney. Let's be honest. We all love it. I love having some again. Even if I'm still quite broke.
Reading time with my nephews.
Having a beer with friends after work. That I have friends. And work.
Fleet Foxes. (Went to their concert - they are seriously AMAZING!) (Fine. Yes. They are represented on my playlist)
That November is moving forward, at a reasonable pace.
My red lipgloss. Rrrred!
That the Oslo-metro system is all in the same price zone now. Man, that bothered me before!
Dates. As in the fruit. Dried. Other meanings of the word? Meh.
Candles. (Yes, I know I already said that)
Daydreaming.
The smell of cold in the air in the morning.
That it isn't raining. Not always.
That I can be as weird as I like in the privacy of my own office (and on my own blog, apparently).
The word "seriously".
Monday, October 31, 2011
On tears
Right from the start, human beings are taught that there is one thing that will get us what we want: tears. Babies use it to get food, toddlers use it to get toys, young girls use it to get money from their fathers, middle-aged men use it to get victories from their football teams...
There are sad tears, happy tears, tears of frustration.
Crocodile tears.
Tears for fears.
Blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Or just blood, sweat and tears.
Tears in heaven.
Personally, though, I'll do my crying in the rain.
There are sad tears, happy tears, tears of frustration.
Crocodile tears.
Tears for fears.
Blood, toil, tears, and sweat. Or just blood, sweat and tears.
Tears in heaven.
Personally, though, I'll do my crying in the rain.
Monday, October 24, 2011
On heresay
I'm not here.
Oh, don't you worry. I don't mean literally. Well, actually, I do. Assuming that "here" is defined by where you are at the moment, since you are reading it, and a text automatically belongs to the reader once it has left the authors hand (or so the post-structuralists say) (or maybe they don't say that, but bear with me) (in fact, don't. I'm not here. As the author of this text I am dead, post-structurally speaking, and I am also physically not in the same place as you, real-world-istically speaking. Unless you also happens to sit on a train on the way to Oslo. But I highly doubt that.)
I'm on a train to Oslo. This train may or may not have wifi - I don't know that now (now being the time of writing of this text), even if I will know by the time "now" becomes now (now being the time of you reading this text, since that realistically have to be at least eight hours after I write it, since that is when I am scheduling it for). Regardless of whether I know now or "now" if my train has wifi, though, that still won't interfere with my statement "I am not here", because I still will have written and scheduled this post now (before), and not now (after). So I am not - physically, obviously, but also metaphysically and mentally - here, if "here" is the blog, or the place from which you are reading this blog, or perhaps the Internet in general. I'm not there. Here. Whereorwhatever.
It's complicated, I know. Barthes and Derrida would have been proud. Except for the fact that I am making a thorough effort to place myself in the text by defining myself out of it, so in fact it seems as though I am here, now, even if I claim that I am not. Instead, I will claim I am elsewhere. On the train, yes, you already know that. On my way to Oslo. To where a job (a job!) is awaiting. A temporary job, but still. You will be free of the endless complaints of my unemployedness for a few weeks, at least. Hooray!
But also. My intention for defining myself out of this text by stating the obvious "I am not here", was not simply to confuse you or make you question my presence/existence/mental state. I meant to direct your attention towards the places where I do define myself as present. Such as the Burrow blog, where I have written a slightly less (but not by much) silly post that this one. It won't post till noon GMT, so if you are looking for me there before then you won't find me. I'll still be on the train, of course.
The other place, however, I wanted to direct your attention to, is here - in a sense - but it is here in a past "now". In yesterday's now in fact. The now that was (is!) a now when I wrote (am writing!) this. Yesterday I wrote a much more sensible post about an important topic I feel the need to share again. So, if you're tired of looking for me here, you might as well go here to find a more serious me.
In the meantime I need to get off this train and try to figure out where I am and what I'm supposed to do here. It is not unlikely that it might involve the death of the author.
Oh, don't you worry. I don't mean literally. Well, actually, I do. Assuming that "here" is defined by where you are at the moment, since you are reading it, and a text automatically belongs to the reader once it has left the authors hand (or so the post-structuralists say) (or maybe they don't say that, but bear with me) (in fact, don't. I'm not here. As the author of this text I am dead, post-structurally speaking, and I am also physically not in the same place as you, real-world-istically speaking. Unless you also happens to sit on a train on the way to Oslo. But I highly doubt that.)
I'm on a train to Oslo. This train may or may not have wifi - I don't know that now (now being the time of writing of this text), even if I will know by the time "now" becomes now (now being the time of you reading this text, since that realistically have to be at least eight hours after I write it, since that is when I am scheduling it for). Regardless of whether I know now or "now" if my train has wifi, though, that still won't interfere with my statement "I am not here", because I still will have written and scheduled this post now (before), and not now (after). So I am not - physically, obviously, but also metaphysically and mentally - here, if "here" is the blog, or the place from which you are reading this blog, or perhaps the Internet in general. I'm not there. Here. Whereorwhatever.
It's complicated, I know. Barthes and Derrida would have been proud. Except for the fact that I am making a thorough effort to place myself in the text by defining myself out of it, so in fact it seems as though I am here, now, even if I claim that I am not. Instead, I will claim I am elsewhere. On the train, yes, you already know that. On my way to Oslo. To where a job (a job!) is awaiting. A temporary job, but still. You will be free of the endless complaints of my unemployedness for a few weeks, at least. Hooray!
But also. My intention for defining myself out of this text by stating the obvious "I am not here", was not simply to confuse you or make you question my presence/existence/mental state. I meant to direct your attention towards the places where I do define myself as present. Such as the Burrow blog, where I have written a slightly less (but not by much) silly post that this one. It won't post till noon GMT, so if you are looking for me there before then you won't find me. I'll still be on the train, of course.
The other place, however, I wanted to direct your attention to, is here - in a sense - but it is here in a past "now". In yesterday's now in fact. The now that was (is!) a now when I wrote (am writing!) this. Yesterday I wrote a much more sensible post about an important topic I feel the need to share again. So, if you're tired of looking for me here, you might as well go here to find a more serious me.
In the meantime I need to get off this train and try to figure out where I am and what I'm supposed to do here. It is not unlikely that it might involve the death of the author.
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