On Good and Bad Bosses

Being a PhD student (especially in Norway, where it is paid employment) is in many ways a sweet deal. You get to spend time working on exactly the thing you're (supposed to be) most interested in. You get to have a narrow focus on a topic so specific (and often insignificant) that most people know next to nothing about it. You get to become an expert on this topic. You get to devote time, energy, intellectual capacity and whatever skills you've developed over time on working on just one, single issue that need not be of any particular interest or use to anyone else (though naturally you have learnt how to argue that indeed it is of particular interest and use to everyone else - you've gotten some kind of funding for this project, after all...). You get to do all this for a longer period of time, usually about three to four years, and in the meantime very few people are going to bother you in any significant way with meeting deadlines, making progress or doing any of the most basic things most employees are expected to do in their jobs: show up at a specific time, show up at all, actually work...

Of course this latter point isn't entirely true.

First of all, most universities will by now have instated some kind of checks and balances system to keep a little control of their PhD students. It will still vary greatly from institution to institution how rigid this system is, but I would guesstimate that you nowhere anymore can do what seems to have been the "norm" many places in the past - you show up at the start of your doctorate and then nobody sees you again for four (or more) years until you show up again for your defense with a 1000 page dissertation.

These days there are some requirements. You have to take some courses (here I know Norway is still on the lighter side. In many places it still is more than justified to call the PhD students students, as they do plenty of course work and have papers due and everything - our system is more flexible and it can be argued that it is just as correct to call me and my peers PhD fellows). You generally will have some deadlines along the way (we, for instance, have a halfway evaluation, which I will take sometime this summer or autumn). And technically I am supposed to show up for work during work hours at any time I don't have a justifiable reason not to do so (a conference, field work, those courses I talked about), but in reality I am fairly sure I could stay at home for several weeks at end and no one would notice (except my office mate, but she wouldn't tell on me, and a simple Facebook message saying "Working from home for a while" would put her at ease). And even if they did notice, it wouldn't have any consequences.*

Many of the requirements, then, are more for show than actually breathing down your neck like the proverbial distrusting boss would do.

However, I do have one of those bosses as well. The problem is that she is not always a good boss. And before you jump to conclusions about me slandering my boss in social media, I should clarify: I'm talking about myself. (My real boss is a man, so there.)

My Bad Boss - me - isn't always a bad boss. The not bad part is what makes her a boss at all. Because in a system where so little pressure is put on you for any day-to-day production (but HUGE pressure on the long haul production with the far-ahead deadline way out of your sight), you really need to pull yourself together and force yourself to do some work every now and then. You need to be your own boss. You need to tell yourself what your tasks are, and then you need to do them. Otherwise, you've already lost.

On occasion this works for me. I can have whole days and several days in a row, even, where I work like a normal person (one of those with real bosses), and get stuff done. My Good Boss manages to give me clear instructions and as a Good Employee (because I am, honestly, even if this post so far might suggest otherwise) I get it done.

This is improvement on my part.

I remember when I wrote my master's thesis I was absolutely horrid at getting stuff done. Every word came at an insufferable price - it felt like I had to pull them out of me like fingernails from a torture victim (you're welcome for that mental picture).

This is because then I only** had the Bad Boss. The Bad Boss still comes around too frequently for me to be particularly happy about it, though. The Bad Boss doesn't motivate me or give me instructions; the Bad Boss tells me that the final deadline is coming closer with every day (well, duh!). She tells me that I have a come nearly halfway in my PhD, but I have not produced half of the text for a PhD dissertation (and my objections that I have done plenty of other useful stuff that doesn't necessarily reflect the amount of output you can touch and feel but nevertheless contributes to the end result have no traction with her). My Bad Boss makes me feel insecure, worried, and generally pretty useless.

My Bad Boss most frequently visits when I am tired, hungry, stressed out, or that one week of the month where most women feel more insecure, worried and useless (if you're a man and you've no idea what I'm talking about, I envy you and I'm about to punch you in the face. Go away. Bring me chocolate before coming back).

Most annoying of all - my Bad Boss makes me a Bad Employee. And as I mentioned, I am not really a Bad Employee. I am a Good Employee. Whenever Good Boss is around it's pretty visible too, so you don't even have to take my word for it.

So. Like a terrible academic*** I have arrived at the problem far too long into the text I'm writing. In order for me to be a Good and Productive Employee, I need my Good Boss to speak louder and more frequently than my Bad Boss. But how do I do this?

Like an even more terrible academic I was very close to ending my text with a question. Because a question, at this point, is about as good as I can do. I don't really have an answer. I can't predict when the Bad Boss will show up, or how long she intend to stay (though I can of course try to avoid the situations I know she is most likely to appear, but even so - it's not like I can avoid work one week every month, no matter how relaxed the system might seem).

My best bet is on the realization that I have a Bad Boss, and that I have a Good Boss. I know there are two of them. So for the times when it feels like only the Bad Boss is the one showing her ugly face, I can try to tell myself that she will not linger forever. The Good Boss will show up eventually. In fact, if I manage to ignore the Bad Boss she sometimes tires of pestering me, and goes away all on her own. Sometimes, sometimes, even the Good Boss pops her head in directly after, just to check on me.****

So it boils down to this: I need to get rid of my Bad Boss but I should probably also be aware that she will never disappear completely, but rather keep in mind she will also never stay put for good.



҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉



*For the record, I also have a supervisor, and she is very active, and she probably would notice both my absence for longer stretches of time and definitely my failure to meet deadlines and produce text. So in my case the potential slacking off has a very real limit. But not every supervisor is as active or attentive, so it is not entirely impossible that you would find cases where not even he or she would know if the PhD student had stopped working altogether for a loooong while.

** This is a truth that needs some moderation. I did write the damn thesis, and it's not all bad, so at some point the Good Boss must have been around then as well. But it didn't feel like it - I suspect maybe the Good Boss simply was a deputy back then, and thus did not really dare to challenge the authority of the Bad Boss. At least that is my theory. I am glad that the Good Boss' career has taken an upward turn!

*** For some reason I really want to write "academidian" instead. But then my Bad Boss told me I could not justify a title clearly derived from a crossover between academic and comedian. As I am neither (can you see what this hag is doing to me? I need her to GO AWAY!!! And not come back - not even with chocolate).

**** Sometimes she brings chocolate! :)

On embracing chaos

It's my new motto. Embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto: Embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto; embrace the chaos.

It's my new motto — embrace the chaos.

I couldn't decide which punctuation worked better, so I chose them all
(It's my new motto.:;— E[e]mbrace the chaos.)

Most people use punctuation to avoid chaos. I'm not most people. Besides,

besides

besides, punctuation is chaos. To me.

So I'm embracing it.

Chaos is everywhere. Chaos is everything. Chaos is a movie starring Ryan Philippe, Jason Statham and Wesley Snipes. Chaos is "a state of utter confusion or disorder; a total lack of organization or order." Chaos is (religion) a chasms or abyss; it is (science) any state of confusion or disorder, plus a branch of mathematics and physics; it is (in the Discordian calendar) a month. Chaos is punctuation. Chaos is being punctured by chaos.

My head is chaos.

Chaos = my head = chaos.

Stop thinking so much, they say. I have no means to do so. Besides,

besides,

Chaos = my head - thinking = chaos.

(This is a very specialized version of chaos theory. A branch of mathematics and physics.)

I cannot stop thinking. I cannot even stop thinking so much. Define "so much". Definitions are meant to make things less chaotic. But then there are so many of them. =chaos.

My only remaining solution.

Embrace.

Embracing the chaos.

Letting it surround me.

Inviting more of it in.

Maybe I'll explode.

Or implode.

Either way explained by a complex branch of mathematics and physics, I'm sure.



On bags

I recently got a new bag.

It was a good bag. A great bag. I had been searching for one for a while, and there it was. The first one I spotted in the shop. It was surprisingly easy to find, and the price was right.

So I bought it. Started using it immediately. Put all my other bags away. And it felt good. I liked using it. I liked the way it looked on me. Liked the things I did with it

Still. It wasn’t perfect. There was nothing objectively wrong with it – the bag looked good, I felt good with it, it was exactly the kind of bag I’d needed. But there was this small voice in my head, whispering that this bag wasn’t what I *really* wanted. That I liked it because it was easy and comfortable, but that I didn’t love it. Not really. As long as there wasn’t anything wrong with the bag, however, and as long as I didn’t have any other bags that seemed better, I faithfully stuck with the one I had.

Then, one day, the bag broke.

I hadn’t had it for long – only about a month. There was no warning – the bag went from great to broken with one tiny snap. The strap tore off, and just like that, I was without a bag.

I thought about going back to the store and complain. It was a new bag, and it should last longer than a month. I also thought about fixing the bag – maybe the strap could be sewn back on and everything would be as before?

In the end I didn’t do any of those things. I accepted that the bag broke. After all, I was partially to blame. I’d probably put too much stuff in the bag, causing the fabric to rip prematurely. It probably would have been broken sooner or later anyway, but this way I didn’t have the time to get too attached to the bag. Besides, now that I started to think of it, there were things about the bag that I hadn’t liked. It put a little too much strain on my shoulder, for instance. I’d been willing to ignore that since I liked the bag, but now that it was broken, I realized that this was something that with time could have become a real problem. Better to nip it in the bud than to end up with an injured shoulder.

Should I get a new bag? I thought about that too. Even browsed a few stores. But in the end I’m strangely okay with not having a bag right now. I’m not even sure what sort of bag I’m looking for, so for the moment I feel fine without one.

Instead I found an old tote I can use until I know what it is I really want.

For now, that’s enough. 

On F****** Fridays

Got up too early AND too late at the same time.

It's raining.

Struggled to find the flow in the papers I had to read this morning.

Continued to struggle all day.

Spent too much money. On stuff. And food. And stuff.

Stupid papers!

Why am I freezing? My feet are icicles (as usual).

Now I'm sleepy. Wish it was a "real" Friday. One where I didn't have to work most of the night.

Bit of a stomach ache.

Cold.

Sleepy.

Want something and don't want it at the same time. Like chocolate.

Definitely don't want to read papers. But if I don't - I'll have to gobble up too many of them the upcoming week instead.

Sigh.

Next Friday will be better!

On stream of unconsciousness

"Not to be confused with stream of consciousness." Though it is rather confusing. I am confusing. And confused. Now the music stopped. Now I started it again. But one of my ear plugs are broken. The set is broken. It's mono. That is not related to the music stopping (again!), because my speakers are stereo or no-o-at-all, alternatively. I got an invitation yesterday. I already rsvp-ed.

I think it's lunch time but I feel like having breakfast. Second breakfast. I already had one. But I think I was asleep. I think I still am.

I really do have ice cream in the freezer. Having it anywhere else would be strange.

It's like this: I could have coffee. But I already did. Besides, quote from a fridge magnet in the coffee place I visited today (the guy working there is real nice, by the way, but you can't go there too often, because then he'll start making you "the regular", and then you feel obliged to always have that and always come there. I can't be tied down like that) - quote (with picture - piquote?)

Except I have no energy. Maybe this is a dream? In which case I'd like to not wake up. I probably need the sleep. Besides I'm not doing stupid things. Yes. That. I'm not doing them. That's stupid. Blinds. The blinds are stupid. And automatic. Like the blinds in front of my eyes. I should eat. Lunchfast. Breakunch. Brunch. Second breakfast. I'm not that found of LOTR, actually. But I do like a good second breakfast. Don't tell my friends I said that. The first thing. About the rings. I like rings. But it's difficult for me to wear them, because my fingers vary greatly in size according to my general body temperature, which also varies, apparently.

Paragraph.

One more.

Interesteling playlist. I didn't make it. I borrowed it from an old coworker. It's very nice, but I am very sleepy. I don't normally talk in my sleep. As far as I know, I don't have any parasomnias. Unless you count that I turn into a blabbering maniac when in lack of sleep. But you shouldn't. Count it. It doesn't fall under the right definition- I forgot full stop- Paragraph-

Foods and animals are really random.

And shampoo.

Whenever someone says "think of something random!" I think of shampoo. Which of course makes it not random at all. Random very rarely is random. Panda. Not random at all. You might think it is. But you would be wrong. Do pandas drink coffee? Probably not. Probably because they are so busy with eating bamboo and not procreate. I sometimes mix up the words procreate and procrastinate.

The curtains here are ugly. They are meant to be decorative, since the blinds take care of light regulation. But the curtains don't decorate. They undecorate. Dedecorate. Disdecorate. "Go, won't you?" I said that. And I meant it. But for entirely different reasons. ...it would be the first time.

Airplane. Swallowed by a cloud. Chewed and spit out again on the other side. The cloud didn't like the taste of metal. The passengers never knew what almost hit (or, rather, digested) them.

It's not really so that random is funny because it is random.

Fridge.

Not random.

Not funny.

But still possible to laugh at, if in the right state of mind. "Arms racing is a state of mind" vs "Arms racing is intense military competition" vs "Arms racing inevitably leads to war". The latter is wrong. Cold War case in point. Besides/ monocausal explanations to excuse personal blame for what later was to be known as the First World War (they didn't know that in the beginning, though, which is a more valid excuse)/

</fedora>

Teh food. I nneedd to go downstairs. Knife. Not of the slaughtering kind. But to eat. With. By. For. Over. Under. Around. Of. There are more. It's not important.

I'll be right back.

It took three minutes. I brought my key but forgot to lock the door.

Jack Malone is actually not the same man,
as,
he,
once was.

His wife left, or so he told everyone. In reality? He knows exactly where to find her. Six feet under a pile of dung. He planted a rosebush on top of it, to cover the smell. The rosebush has thorns.

Jack Malone is not the kind of man,
you,
want,
to get too close to.
As a narrator, then, you assign him a name, to create some distance. To keep yourself out of his head.
But Jack's name isn't Jack. And as you admit that, you feel him creeping into your head after all, speading his darkness through your veins and arteries, like a bottle of ink streaming (unconsciously) into every crease in a wooden floor, after having broken upon impact. From a desk. You are the desk. You are the floor. You are the ink. You. You are the narrator.

You thought it was me. You thought I was the one facing the problem. But you were wrong. Jack infuses you, now,


It's all very obvious. The cards are dealt. The chess board set. With the instructions in a foreign language. Someone draws a gun. Then colours it pink with half-broken crayons.

I have to go. I'm awake now. Asleep. Almost. Always. After all.

On keeping it together

First of all. Don't read damnyouautocorrect.com at work. Even if you're in your own office, behind a closed door. You *will* laugh loud enough for your collegues to suspect that you are not grading papers. Also, grading papers rarely make me tear up (yet).

Secondly - the weather. Yeah, that's right. I'm putting on my old man pants for a minute. Let's dicuss the weather. We're having snow. And then not snow. And then snow. And then ice. And melty-hell. And wet shoes, slippery, dangerous ice-melty-hell. And then snow again. Right now, the view from my window is not-so-bad:

(Not-so-great either, but that is mainly due to a) poor picture quality since my phone is ancient; and b) it's not that spectacular a view. That's reserved for the people on the 11th floor.)

Anyway. Today it was slippery-hell when I left the house, it was raining by the time I changed trains, and when I got to the office I was soaked. 30 minutes later it was snowing like mad. Hence the Winter Wonderland-ish-ness above.

Speaking of....

I kinda love this. (And my old man pants are off again!)

(Pants should, generally be off. At least this is what the Michigan contingent of my shrinks tell me)

(I haven't asked the rest of the world. Yet.)

I'm stressing, A LOT, lately. With everything. Life. Living situation. Work. More work. Christmas shopping. Finding the right kind of music for the holiday mood to tick in...

(This helps, a little)




Basically, it's all about keeping it together, right? Not letting the stress get to you. One day at the time, or, even, one breath at the time. Breathe in. Breathe out.

I will try, at least.

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.

On more ecards

On distant digital derivation (and a digression or two)

This weekend I attended a photo class. It was a impulsive thing - a wish generated by my mother, adopted by me, triggered by an ad in our local newspaper, and eventually followed through by the combined effort of miscommunication and generosity. My mother entered us despite me having laid other plans, and without knowing the cost. When discovering the cost (which was a little over the price we'd expected), she offered to pay. I altered my original plan, and we were thus able to participate.

Much alike how I will change my original plan for this post. 

I meant to write a little about the class, about how useful it had been, and to show a few samples of snapshots that proved I had through the course of 14 hours concentrated on one hectic weekend, I had become a superb photographer. But then the course didn't prove that. 

What I learned through this course, in addition to the stuff on the curriculum, was a) that I am NOT (as I thought) a good-ish amateur photographer; I am a terribly mediocre one, b) my beloved camera, Buck, that has been my compadre for four years, on three continents, during various times of stress and worry; is outdated. Buck is no class act camera. Buck has limitations, and c) if I want to take great pictures I also will have to do some post-shot work, meaning Photoshop. Tampering with images is no longer an issue; only purists will consider it any different than doing work in a darkroom. Photoshop is the darkroom of the digital age. 

It was three largeish disappointments to handle on top of a whole lot of (very useful) information regarding shutter speed, aperture, ISO, file formats, lightning, composition and so on. The class was interesting; the instructor impressive, engaging and lovely; and I think in the long run it will make me appreciate photography more. It has triggered a new set of thoughts around this vagueish hobby of mine. But I feel I had more use of learning of these things than of learning how to use them (especially since I didn't learn how to use them, due to points a) and b), and by default c) (since I don't have or plan to get Photoshop) above. But rather than taking all these new "rules" I've learned and putting them into use, I prefer learning by doing. Walking the road myself, see what happens. Okay, so the chances are that I will take a gazillion crappy photographs. But perhaps that is the price I have to pay to find my way of taking those few, great ones I sometimes feel I get. 

One could easily turn this into a writing analogy. I recently almost applied for a writing class. I didn't tell a soul about it, because I didn't want to face having to deal with people's reactions should I not get in. In the end, I shouldn't have worried, since I didn't even apply. One reason was the whole Japan debacle that turned my life upside down for quite a while (and to an extent still does). But at the same time, this freed up considerable amounts of time, so if I had wanted I still could have applied. 

The deadline was April 1st. I ended up not even trying. I could analyze it all day long, and I could make excuses all day long. It makes very little difference. But the lesson from the photo class applies here too: a writing class might have infuriated me more than inspired me, since I like to walk the path myself. Everything I know about writing, I have taught myself, from reading. By adding new genres, new authors, new books, I have expanded my horizon. Obviously there are still things I could have learned from a writing class, but I am not sure I'm ready to go there just yet. I need to figure out things on my own first, then I can absorb more information, more "rules", more ideas. 

Or maybe I'm just scared to discover that I am mediocre, that I am outdated, and that I need to "Photoshop" my work before it's ready for the world? 

Or. Maybe my failure to apply for the class has to do with the general post-Japan funk I've been hitting lately. I'm having a hard time getting out of bed, getting my butt off the chair in front of my computer, enjoying the weather, enjoying free time. I've been restless and motionless at the same time. I don't have anything to do, but there is an abundance of things I could do, should I feel like it. But I don't. I don't feel like doing anything. It took me days to summon the energy to write one single email to my current (former? Past and future?) employer to ask them if anything regarding "my situation" had changed. Will I go back? I still don't know. They still don't know. Shall I apply for jobs? Of course I shall. But I postpone. And postpone. It took me another day to change two lines in my resume. At this rate it will take weeks before I send off any applications. 

Limbo funk. Writing funk. Spring funk. Japan funk. And now photo funk. I need to snap out of it, but I don't really feel like it. I feel like sitting in a blanket hut in my room with a flashlight, pretending that the grown-ups are monsters, and that they cannot reach me as long as I keep completely still. 

This post is long, especially for A-Z standards. And yet I am asking you to visit a few links I'm about to post. Outrageous. One is another blog post I wrote for today. Over at Burrowers, Books & Balderdash the complete different side of my funk is showing - the silly side. Then, at our Burrow website, www.the-burrow.org, our collective spring mood is displayed in a brand new drabble feature. ¨

Finally, I read a blog post by the lovely Bru yesterday that really made me nod and shake my head all at the same time. She makes some very good points about the A-Z challenge, and I think the post and the comments below are well worth a read no matter how you feel about the challenge (but please keep the discussion civil). Obviously I don't agree with everything she says, since I am participating. But I must admit it got to me, even if I feel I've been clear from I signed up that I'm in this for my own part - for regularity - and not to gain followers. I won't attempt to visit every other blog in the challenge, and I don't expect every participant to visit mine. The new blogs I find as a result of the challenge, I consider a bonus. (I had a longer comment on this over at Bru's blog, but something technical sumfink has been messing with me, because it is all gone, and it was waaaay too long for me to even consider writing it again.)

Anyway. In response to Bru, possibly; as a way of talking myself through the funk, definitely; and because the whole "reader friendly, short post" concept doesn't always go well with my random, digressionary nature - this has been the monster post of the century. Bear over with me, and come back for Wordless Wednesday tomorrow (it will be a picture from my sorrow-less, pre-photo class days as a good-ish amateur, when Buck was solid gold and I thought Photoshop was for the tech savvy alone). Thanks for listening.  

On nuclear scares

Let me say this once and for all: Fukushima will not be a Chernobyl 2.

And I'm not just saying this to make you (or me) feel better. I say it based on information provided to me by Japanese authorities, and analyses of this info from specialists from several diplomatic missions in Tokyo. I learned more abour nuclear physics (chemistry?) yesterday than I ever wanted to. Let me try to put it in layman's terms, as it has been explained to me.

First of all, the Fukushima reactors do not contain burnable material. The problem in Chernobyl was that the reactor overheated, started a fire which burned for days, and the smoke from the fire spread radioactive material over vast areas. In Fukushima, no such fire is possible.

Secondly, the explosions that have occurred were scary, but not as dramatical as certain news channels (and Twitter) claimed. It was not - I repeat not - a nuclear explosion, and it did not take place in the actual reactor. During a controlled venting of the containment vessel for the reactor in Unit 1 of the Fukushima power plant, hydrogen gas leaked. This gas is explosive when in contact with oxygen. Thus when it leaked further into the operational floor of the unit, it came in contact with the air there, and exploded. This is what blew the roof off the building. Four people were injured, and some (but very little) radioactive material was released, in amounts so small that it amounts to no more than what you are exposed to during a regular x-ray. Also, the containment vessel of the reactor is intact and suffered no major damage, and there is no indication that the actual nuclear core is damaged. It does appear that the second explosion (Unit 3) was similar (and this time expected, although obviously still not wanted) to the first one, and we have received no indication that the situation is more severe as a result of the second explosion. 

Both the reactors have also been cooled down, by use of seawater. This means two things: first of all, the reactor is forever ruined, and cannot be put to further use. This is doubtlessly a tough decision to make, not only because of the value of the reactor itself, but also because the temporary termination of the nuclear power plants have created a power shortage here, and that in turn affects the reactors that depend on pumps to cool it down.

Secondly, it poses challenges because there now will be contaminated sea water that cannot be returned to the sea. Japanese authorites have confirmed they will not do that.

These are severe problems, and Japanese authorities are aware of them - but they are still not in the Chernobyl range. We have all seen disaster movies. It is easy to imagine a "worst case scenario" much more bleak than what actually is likely, or even possible. I have asked our expert all sorts of questions, ranging from what the actual (as opposed to media) worst case scenario is; how likely this is; (selfishly) whether this would affect Tokyo; and so on.

His answers have been reassuring. He does not believe an actual meltdown will happen, based on the current information we have available. It seems that the reactors have been cooled down, and they are monitoring further activity. The sea water that has been used to cool down the reactors have been infused with borom, which kills nuclear reactions. Both of these things are good news, since it decreases the likelyhood of a meltown.

Even if a meltdown were to happen, though, the effect would be much smaller than Chernobyl. At the moment the emissions we should worry the most about are probably the contaminated sea water and how it is being handled.

Because of the nuclear power plant shut-downs Japan is facing an energy crisis. We are urged to save power, and the energy company has organized "brownouts" - rotating blackouts to ration power. This is inconvenient, but again I am fortunate to be at the embassy where we have a generator so that we can keep contact with the world. For the time being, I have no plans of leaving Tokyo.



As you may have noticed, I've returned to my regular "on"-titles today. Not because I don't believe we are still very much in a state of emergency - we are - but we still have to try to move towards some sort of normalcy, or we wouldn't be able to cope. The last few days I've had very little sleep, I've been eating irregularly, and I've been under more stress than I've experienced in my lifetime. The combination is not the best; like everyone else here I am exhausted. I try to look at the Japanese. They are worried too - obviously - but they are handing this very well. They go about with their usual business if possible, and listen to authorities for advice. Training since primary school and an orderly nature helps. The only people I've seen freaking out over any of this, have been foreigners. I believe the rest of the world has much to learn from Japan when it comes to coping with crisis.

And yet. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried. No, I don't believe we face nuclear meltdown. But yes, it is a grim situation. Despite my rational explanation above, I cannot pretend that I am not affected. It feels oddly like living in the aforementioned disaster movie. I feel that we by now have come to the stage where either a superhero or a rescue team of astronauts or something should arrive and save the day. I'm about ready for the end credits.

On being usy

I am so busy that I didn't have the time to change the typo in the title of this post. This week my entire, dratted, darn thesis is supposed to be, not done, but done-ish. A first draft of the entire shebang is going to my supervisor's assistant (who is more than a little scary - talented people often are), and I worry that I haven't been able to write a coherent thesis, that I haven't been able to incorporate all the alterations and changes I've already been asked to make. In general I worry about letting people down. (And because I am in thesis writing mode, I should specify that "people" in this case indicate a) my supervisor; b) my supervisor's assistant; and most importantly, c) myself.


And I also applied for a job...

On good days and bad days

I have a great memory when it comes to bad things. And by “great”, I mean terrible. Let me clarify…

For a while now I’ve been kind of blue. The main reason was the disappointment for not being able to finish my thesis as planned this spring. That one got me good. The second, almost as important reason was the stress I was under to finish something thesis-related, even though I almost had no time to do it in between all the other stuff going on in my life. The third reason is the accumulation of many smaller things that individually affect my mood on a daily basis. They can range from the disappointment I feel in myself when I haven’t done the dishes, to instant low self-confidence for some reason or other. Fortunately, are usually forgotten the next morning. However, I don’t deal too well with these things if too many of them hit at once or too often, or if they are combined with other factors such as stress or disappointment. (You can see where this is going, yes?)

The result of all of this was that I have been feeling overall bad, with certain bright spots in between, as opposed to my usual feeling overall good but with certain darker spots every now and then.

At least I think that is how I usually feel. The thing is, you see, I have a very selective memory when it comes to these things. If I look back on my childhood, I think of it as exclusively happy. My teen years? Happy. The semester I lived in Japan? Happy! My time in the US last fall? You guessed it – happy again. Clearly, I must be missing something. No one is happy all the time. And if I think real hard about it, I do remember certain not-so-happy memories. I was as stubborn as a goat’s left hoof when I was little, and as a result I got into big arguments with my parents. As a teenager I had all the normal puberty issues and growing-up angst. When I was in Japan I was at least on one occasion so homesick that I seriously considered spending 30,000 kroner (about $ 5,000) on an immediate flight back home. And the first thing I did in the US was to cry my eyes out in public because I felt so very, very lonely.

But those aren’t the things I remember. It is as though my memory deliberately preserves the good times and erases the bad.

I think it’s a survival technique. If I had remembered just how homesick I was in Japan when I started planning my trip to the US, chances are I wouldn’t have left Norway at all. My terrible memory for all things dreary gives me the strength to go on (and because of that it is great).


When I woke up yesterday morning I was rested (for the first time in a while). I was smiling. I was ready to tackle the challenges the day would bring. What had changed since Monday? A few things:

First of all, I had decided to stop giving a damn about the stupid Chapter Five (you may remember it from yesterday’s post as “Or How I Lost The Will To Live”), and just write whatever came to mind. Turns out all my procrastinating and wailing and cursing of this chapter haven’t entirely ruined the work I have done in between. There is something there. It is a meager start, and it is still the crappiest draft made in history (and I am slightly worried that my supervisor will have a heart attack when she sees what her once so promising student is capable of producing), but it is that, at least: a start. And because I stopped caring, I managed to get some serious work done. What a relief!

The second thing that changed from Monday to Tuesday is that the Burrow blog, which was launched with astonishing success, no longer felt like a burden. This is one of those little things that typically don’t give me much stress, but because of the timing I was in no shape to handle the extra excitement it provided. Once launched, however, it is not out of my hands (urk, I have NO idea what I shall write for my first post there, scheduled to appear on Monday…), but somehow it is out of my mind (*snort* Okay, pun not intended, but hey… It works…).

Finally there were some other non-major things that resolved themselves, and all together this makes for a MUCH happier Cruella than the one banging her head into the wall all weekend. At least I think that is what I did. Strangely enough, it feels as though I was happy then as well. In fact, I think I have always been happy. I’m just never blue! Happy! (See how great my memory is?)


Currently listening to: Good Days and Bad Days by Kaizer Chiefs

Currently reading: The Sea of Monsters: Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book Two (This was my treat for sending away the draft. Friends have recommended these books to me for years, and I saw the movie a while back, but I never got around to actually picking up the books. When I finally did bring the first one back from work one day, I loved it every bit as much as everyone said I would.)

On and off again

My blogging dependability goes up and down like a roller coaster when that little something I like to call “Life” (with a big L) gets out of hand. It doesn’t necessarily have to do with how busy I am – I managed to keep a regular routine in October last year, for instance, even though I was up and down and all about trying to make the most out of my last month living in the US. The last few weeks I have not acted very busy, and yet it felt as though my stress levels were at an all time high. I felt busy. I should have been busy. But in reality, I only was mentally busy.


Friday was the day I should have celebrated that two years of hard work on my thesis was over. Instead, I was celebrating that most of my friends were done with their hard work. Don’t get me wrong, I was very happy for them. But there is a special kind of bitterness reserved for occasions when you should have been happy for yourself and only get to be happy for others. I managed to keep a brave face for most of the celebration, and rationally I am perfectly capable of admitting that postponing my thesis is not a defeat but a wise decision seeing as this way I’ll be able to actually write one… However, I can assure you that most of the drinks I had on Friday were not celebratory ones, but drinks intended to drown sorrows (which they quite efficiently did, even if I have always been told that sorrows can swim).

That was Friday. Then came Saturday, when I had a few friends over, again largely to celebrate them finishing their theses (while mine has been largely dormant for a while. I think my blogging dependability is similar in essence to my thesis writing dependability. Life gets in the way, somehow). However bitter I might have been deep down inside, though, I had a good time on both Friday and Saturday. Great friends and great wine saw to that. On Sunday, however, I paid the cost for having drowned sorrows two days in a row, and the only thing I could muster the energy to do was bake a cake. Why, you say? Well, surely, you didn’t think we were done celebrating just yet?

On Monday it wasn’t university related, though. May 17th is Norway’s Constitutional Day, which we famously celebrate more thoroughly than most nations. There are national costumes (the bunad), children’s parades, flags, marching bands, hotdogs, ice cream, singing, games, alcohol, cakes (aha!), and general festiveness involved. Most shops, any public offices, hing - even private offices, banks and museums and whatnot – they’re all closed. Everyone has the day off, everyone dresses up, everyone participates in the celebrations. Oslo, a remotely populated city in international terms, suddenly becomes Bombay or Tokyo. There are people everywhere. I spent close to 20 minutes crossing the street, and 20 more trying to locate some friends I was meeting in a space no bigger than 100x50 meters. So it’s crowded.

I had a great time, as I always do on May 17th. It did nothing to help me get my mind back into the right frame for blogging and/or writing my thesis, though. And the fact that my laptop has been showing signs of early dementia did not help.

I’ve gone through (more than) my share of laptops the past few years. Yes, I use my laptops all the time. No, I don’t think that should be a reason for them breaking down all the time. My first one, Laptop the First, was brand new when I moved to Oslo six years ago. It stood with me through thick and thin, it travelled continents and it fought on my side when I battled term papers during my first years at the university. However, three years old it decided that enough was enough. It very nearly died several times, and when I took it to get it repaired, there was nothing they could do. They informed me that it would slowly be reduced until one day it would be entirely dead.

Sad as that was, I couldn’t go laptopless (a term my friend Tara coined a while ago), now could I? So I invested in a new machine. It was shiny and new and wonderful and – broken. Right from the start. I took it back. They claimed I only needed to reinstall the operative system. I think I did that three times, along with several other attempts to figure out what was the matter with Laptop the Second. After eight months, however, I finally managed to convince the shop to take it back and return my money. Thus, I went looking for Laptop the Third. Laptop the Third and I immediately hit it off. We’ve been together for a year and a half now, and once again I felt that I had found a friend that would support me through thick and thin. Only then it stopped doing that. With a dead battery a laptop is not very reliable, so when I took it back to the shop I knew that I had to be without it for a few weeks at least. Which suited me very badly, seeing is my laptop is my number one working tool and I have a deadline coming up.

The prospect of being laptopless for even a short time (especially right now – had I trusted Laptop the Third to live through the next month without crashing completely I might not have acted rashly) was terrible. I have for some time been ogling those mini laptops that you can practically put in your pocket. Even though Laptop the Third is relatively small, it is still heavy to carry, and having to transport it back and forth to the university all the time is not very good, for me or the laptop. A smaller laptop, though, could easily fit into any bag or backpack, and if I had two I wouldn’t actually have to carry either anywhere at all. I could keep one at home and one at the university.

I probably would have bought the mini laptop at some point anyway, but having to let go of Laptop the Third for a while made me hasten my decision. I can’t really afford it. I don’t strictly need it (I have access to computers at the university, after all). But I really, really wanted it. And granting myself things I want is one of my favourite tactics to ignore sorrows and stress…

Yup, we’re back at the stress part. One final thing that has been weighing on me lately is my pending move to a new apartment. I have been very happy/very unhappy with my living arrangement the previous six months. Unhappy because they decisively are “arrangements”. Sharing an apartment with a friend will always lead to some tension, but doing do when the apartment only has one bedroom… Ah. NO privacy;, no opportunities for “I am feeling gunky because of my stupid thesis and I want to sit in the dark in my own room and cry”; and very little control over your own situation, really. On the bright side we’ve had shared dinners, we’ve had weekly Glee-downtime together and we’ve danced to Madonna at one AM just because we could. Besides, I have come to appreciate the area. Living downtown made me feel insecure and claustrophobic at first, but now I like being able to walk everywhere (except the university, which is what I will be able to access on foot from my new apartment), I love the parks, the shops, the cafés, the people. I think my new neighbourhood will probably suit me even better, but right now it only feels remote.

Regardless of where I move to or from, however, I hatehatehate the process. Packing everything down, not being entirely sure what you’ll need and what you can let go… Most of my stuff have lived in boxes for a year, so I barely remembered what I owned. Now I need to figure out what t I should take with me, what I should leave behind and what it is time to throw out for good. Transitions such as these are probably good to clear your mind (and clean up your storage space), but I never seem to get past the disorganized mess before there is order. I only hope I will be able to get sorted out quickly, so that my new home will feel like a home.

When Life with a big L, with all its small (laptopmess) and big (moving; thesis failure worry syndrome) events take charge it becomes almost impossible to keep a cool distance to it all. I find myself unable to blog, unable to write, unable to work. It is a passing condition, I know from experience, and so I promise with confidence that I will come back stronger in all these aspects. In the meantime I shall try not to let Life get the better off me, but at the same time let it control me a little. Because sometimes Life just means taking the day off, sitting in the sun, eating ice cream.



For the record, I did buy a mini laptop today (how else did you think I was writing this?). Laptop the Fourth is cute, but I sense that it is merely a fling until Laptop the Third is back in my arms again. It will be handy having two laptops, and the eeny-tiny feeling wears off surprisingly fast (it now seems normal sized, after having typed up this post). But it doesn’t feel like the Laptop of my Life.

On getting out of bed on the wrong foot

[Å stå opp med det gærne beinet først]

I’m aware that the English equivalent of this saying that I conveniently translated from Norwegian, is “to get off on the wrong foot”. That is, it’s not really equivalent, because while the English one more generally covers a “bad start”, the Norwegian one quite specifically is used to explain a bad day. If you’re having a bad day, the theory is that you put the “wrong” foot down on the floor before the “right” one that morning.

It is a silly explanation, of course, especially considering that most people tend to get out from their bed on the same side each day (either because their bed is standing next to a wall, or because there is a partner on the other side of the bed). And if you’re getting out of bed on the same side each morning, it takes some skill and a level of concentration most people don’t have when they have just woken up, to put down another foot than the one you always do. One can, of course, assume that you’re always putting down the “wrong” foot first, but this also diminishes the meaning of the saying, because no one has a bad day every day, right?

However stupid the saying is, there is no escaping the fact that every now and then we all have days where it feels like everything works in your disfavor, from the second you get out of bed.

Like the other morning, when everything seemed to go wrong right from the very beginning. Fortunately, it wasn’t my morning.

When I was in the US (slight digression here, but I do have a point), one thing I really appreciated was the US way of eating breakfast out, or at the very least take a coffee to go on the way to work. The latter is quite common here too, actually, but that’s beside the point. What is also beside the point is that I didn’t really appreciate it all that much (the breakfast part of it – the coffee thing I love, even if it is environmentally unfriendly. Sigh. All the good things are) because I’ve grown up with always, always eating breakfast at home before leaving the house. So not doing that makes me feel like I’m not really awake. Or starved. Or something. I had a point? Oh, right…

The point, if you ignore all the “besides”, is that it is possible to eat breakfast out. They do it in the US. I’ve started doing it sometimes after returning to Norway, mostly because I’m in a rush to get out of the house in the morning, and thus don’t have time to eat. But then I don’t eat “out”, I eat at the break room at the university. Which isn’t the same at all.

A few weeks ago, however (still no right or wrong foot on the floor, sorry), I impulsively went off the tram five stops early because I had an urge to go to a coffee shop I’ve been eyeing from the tram (I struggled with writing “tram” two times within the same sentence, but I couldn’t be bothered to figure out a better way to put it. If I were to say streetcar instead, for instance, that would have been such a horrid mix of American English and British English within the same sentence that I couldn’t stand it. I do mix a lot, but I try to avoid doing so within one sentence). This is a very American-like coffee shop (in fact, it’s the most American-like we’ve got in Oslo. Norway must be the only developed country without a Starbucks), and it took me right back to the US.

Nevermind that I didn’t actually eat breakfast out all that often while in the US (nevernevermind that I didn’t even like it all that much) – eating breakfast in a coffee house before work (uni, whatever) was bliss! What a lovely start of the day! (I am totally failing on the “bad start of the day” anecdote…)

As an added bonus, I had my laptop with me, and with no distracting internet (if that coffee shop has a wifi, I don’t want to know about it!), I managed to get a whole lot of work done!

Consequently, I decided to repeat the experience.

I chose a different coffee house (in fact, it is a bakery), but otherwise I had the same basic approach. Take the tram as usual (so I am close to the university for when I am ready to leave), have a cup of coffee and something to eat, and then – work.

This is where I ran into that poor soul who definitely must have put the wrong foot down on the floor first thing that morning.

The girl working in the bakery (alone, in a bakery, early in the morning, when the major rush of the day – apart from lunch – is taking place) was all smiles. Which was about to impress me.

The first thing that happened was that she ran out of milk. Have you ever tried making a latte without milk (soya drinkers not included)? Not that easy. And seeing as Norwegians have become rather continental in their coffee taste the last few years, at least half of the coffees ordered were lattes. Or other types with steamed milk. Which she didn’t have.

Well, she handled this professionally, and politely excused to each customer that she didn’t have any milk. But then the coffee machine started crashing. You could practically see her blood pressure rising. Still, she kept smiling. The customers were behaving relatively well, and after a while the worst rush was over. She then decided to run out to buy milk. I was the only customer there, but she asked me if it would be okay if she ran out for a minute. Half wanting to offer to buy the milk myself (I felt really bad for her by now), I was more than happy to sit idly by and look after the shop.

Unfortunately the grocery shop wasn’t open yet. Still no milk. When she got back, another customer had come by. He accepted regular coffee instead of latte, and things were looking okay until the register crashed. I surely thought she would lose it then. But no, she was still standing, and more incredibly, she was still smiling!

I could go on. The regular coffee is kept in huge containers, and she was unfortunate to drop one of them and both spill all the fresh coffee and break the container. One of her coworkers called in sick. The register crashed a second time.

Talk about having a hopeless morning! And here I was sitting comfortably, observing the whole thing (working was a lot harder that morning than the first, I can assure you), feeling slightly bad because I was having a positively super morning. And yet, she was the one smiling.

I think the next time I get out of bed on the wrong foot I will try to follow her example!

On zzz

Zzz zzzzz zzzzzzzzz zz z zzzzzzzzz z zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzz zzz zz zzzzzz zz zzzzzzzz zz zz zzz z.


That is how my mornings have been lately. Ever since I decided to not finish my thesis this spring, I’ve stopped stressing during the day. Unfortunately, this has led to stress during the night instead.

I don’t usually have stress dreams prior to exams or other such hectic situations. I am wound together (is that even something you can say – “wound together”? When tired, I tend to make up words and/or idioms…) in a much more efficient way – I usually sleep fairly well up until the point of the exam (with the possible exception of the last night), but then there is payback afterwards.

I’ve been known to wake up in the middle of the night, convinced that I have missed an important deadline, weeks after I made the deadline just fine. Once I very nearly murdered my flat mate for keeping me awake all night so that I missed an exam. Only she hadn’t kept me awake, and I had passed the exam days earlier. It was only a dream (which I fortunately realized just as I was sharpening my butcher’s axe).

While this is exhausting, it is usually relatively unproblematic, seeing as the incident that caused the stress is already over. I think it is a way of dealing with stress. My body may not be able to ignore stress, but it postpones it until I can “afford” to waste my strength. This, after all, is better than breaking down when I need that strength the most.

This time, however, I am not so sure how fortunate it is. Since, technically, I don’t have to stress as much anymore, my body apparently thinks it’s okay to catch up with all the accumulated tension. But right now I can’t really afford it. Because I still need energy and focus to work on my thesis, even if the deadline is much further away. And I can tell you that is very hard to do when you barely sleep at night.

This week I have been chased by a crazed serial killer with needles; I’ve been trapped by adorable but poisonous mini kiwi birds (!); I’ve been invaded by noisy teenagers; I’ve babysat a demon spawn; I’ve made life-changing discoveries (only to discover they were not as life-changing after all); and tonight I found out I was responsible for the Holocaust. All while asleep.

It is terribly exhausting, because the dreams both make sure I don’t sleep as much as I’d like (and need) to, and they are also not allowing me to relax as much when actually asleep. (Or could it be that the fact that I wake up more often and relax less is what makes me have these dreams? Either way it’s connected.) The result? I find myself collapsably tired (as I so eloquently put it in my Facebook status yesterday) all the time. Last night I almost feel asleep while doing the dishes (*splash*). This morning I nearly missed my tram stop because my eyes were closed (but I wasn’t sleeping. No, no. Well, yes I was).

Hopefully, it’s a phase that soon will pass. Often, when I’m sleeping poorly over time, I eventually do collapse, and that one 14 hour night of pure coma is enough to put me back on track. If that is what it takes, I sure hope it’ll come soon! Otherwise, I fear that I will end up as a splatter movie script writer. I certainly have the material to start plotting in thus direction!