Because I, Am A Crazy Person

I also just got two new books in the mail, and have several more coming! I tell you man, when it rains, it freaking pours (hey, didn’t I write a story with that title once? man, I’m cliche! )…

In Honour Of My First Papercut

I thought I’d tell you of the Trials of the Scanner.

This is the tale of heinous scanner,
That repeatedly jammed in a terrible manner.
It grieved me in light of the dreaded mountain of mail
Gathered from the doorstep to this paperwork hell
Never-ending…

Hehe… okay, fine, it wasn’t QUITE that dramatic- I just felt like tying Atonement in because I re-watched it yesterday. Seriously though, I have about a zillion bits of mail that need to get scanned into the computer, and I swear, that evil scanner must have jammed every half hour or so. And, of course, one couldn’t just unjam it, nooooo. One has to commence a magical sequence of clicking things off and programs off and on and trying the same paper only for it to jam again and… I tell you, Oh! How I would have loved to take a baseball bat to that stupid thing. Wouldn’t have helped much though, because I don’t know how I’d finish scanning all that mail without a scanner, hehe…

Protected: No problem, or How My Worldview Shoves Its Way To The Surface Though Frustration

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Random Thoughts About Grad School. And Interviews.

On Grad Schools:

This I tell you, and I tell you with the hopes that you’ll learn from my stupid mistakes: If you are AT ALL considering continuing your studies after undergrad in a field you did not major in, for the love of Jasper Gabriel bon Jingles- MINOR IN IT!! My faculty adviser told me minors weren’t worth anything unless I was sure I wanted to study that subject in grad school. And, given the fact that I wasn’t forward-thinking enough to be considering grad school, (mostly because I hate application essays), I didn’t minor in anything. Stupid, stupid me.

After all, I knew I was interested in film studies and psychology- but instead of sticking to either of those minor programs, I took more English courses (Literary Criticism and Shakespeare) and a not-required Biblical Studies course (Exodus-Deuteronomy) because it was taught by a professor of uber brilliance. Do I regret taking these classes? No, I enjoyed all three (well, not Shakespeare so much as a class, but I was in Oxford at the time, so I would have been happy to study ancient native Haitian basket weaving… or whatever). But wish I had also made room to take more psych courses (even if APU’s psych program SUCKS TO HIGH HEAVEN… regardless of how blindly proud they are of it. I’m sure the faculty members are all very nice people…). Because now I find myself staring at MA program aps and banging my head against the wall because I haven’t taken the prerequisites. Could I trudge my way through the information at the Advanced Level- sure, if I really put my mind to it. But they don’t know that, and that stinkith. So then what? Online classes or MJC? Yuckiness… Gr.

On Interviews:
Due to the fact that I once (ignorantly) aspired to be an Executive Assistant in the film industry, I have gone to many, many interviews. Perhaps this is indicative of my resume’s brilliance (since a resume’s purpose is to get you the interview), or maybe Oxford’s too shiny to resist, or they chose aps at random. But, I never did get an assistant job (and, after hearing how Sam’s bosses treated her, I stopped applying). Regardless, I’ve faced many an interviewer, and this is what I’ve noticed:

Bad:
1. When he/she picks you out of a crowd as “the one wearing all black?”
2. Ending rambling sentences with “and, um… yea. so on?”
3. Sending out mass emails to potential employers in the “To:” section instead of the “BCC:” section (one actually sent me an email back, all insulted and whatnot. Er, sorry? My bad…)
4. When the interview is really short.
5. Going home and deleting all your info on a potential employer because you’re convinced the interview went horribly. They still might call you back.
6. Sweat. It’s just a pain. It screws up your bangs and makes your feet smell weird. And there’s little to nothing you can do about it- RAHH!!

This afternoon, I learned that:
1. Group interviews suck
2. I am not so great at making a good impression when there are three other interviewees around the same little table, and only one question is actually asked pertaining to job-related experiences, etc.
3. Some people, when asked if they have any questions, will ask the interviewer what her favorite color is. (I spell this without “u”s because it was a freaking stupid question)
4. At a group interview, you will get interrupted by loud-mouths. And they might even pretend not to notice that they talked over you.

In my experience, no one cares if:
1. You don’t tailor your resume drastically for each position. Of course, it should show that you can do the job (ie. have previously answered a phone and/or spoken to a human being in real life).
2. You’re nervous. They probably can’t even see you shaking, so grin and ignore it.
3. You spill your purse contents everywhere- especially if the interview is for an internship that they barely pay you anything to do.
4. You call them by their first name. They seemed to expect me to, at least in LA. Don’t know what it’s like up here in hick country though… teh hehe…

So, now I have to figure out how to take prereq classes and write a statement of purpose, as well as still picking programs to apply to. And I start working at a new job tomorrow. This is a good thing but…. AHHhhhhh… *hides*

Top Five

Things that make me queasy these days:

1. the amount of $$ left in my bank account
2. Rom-Coms.
3. My mother lecturing me about how pretty much everything I do/eat is “bad for POS”
4. Glenn Beck (particularly when he’s all choked up)
5. the toxic smell that Jasper creates in his litter box at 12:11 just about every night.

Oiy vay. Hehe…

From “Called Out of Darkness”

“His was–after all–the Divine Mind which had made the miracle of the Big Bang, and created the DNA only lately discovered in every physical cell. His was the Divine Mind that had created the sound of the violin in the Beethoven concerto; His was the Divine Mind that made snowflakes, idle flames, birds soaring upwards, the unfolding mystery of gender, and the gravity that seemingly held the Universe together–as our planet, our single little planet, hurtled through space.

“Of course. If He could do all that, naturally He knew the answer to every conceivable question before it was formulated. He knew the worst suffering that a human soul could feel. Nothing was wasted with Him because He was the author of all of it. He was the Creator of creatures who felt anger, alienation, rage, despair. In this great novel that was His creation, He knew every plot, every character, every action, every voice, every syllable, and every jot of ink.”
(Anne Rice)

Revolution, Beatle’s Style:

You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it’s evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don’t you know that you can count me out
Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right
all right, all right

You say you got a real solution
Well, you know
We’d all love to see the plan
You ask me for a contribution
Well, you know
We’re doing what we can
But when you want money
for people with minds that hate
All I can tell is brother you have to wait
Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right
all right, all right
Ah

ah, ah, ah, ah, ah…

You say you’ll change the constitution
Well, you know
We all want to change your head
You tell me it’s the institution
Well, you know
You better free you mind instead
But if you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao
You ain’t going to make it with anyone anyhow
Don’t you know it’s gonna be all right
all right, all right
all right, all right, all right
all right, all right, all right

Dead Man

I remember when Jars of Clay’s CD “Good Monsters” was first released. I was, essentially, obsessed with it. It was a bit idolic, but at the time I was more than a little disoriented. I still adore their music, but their music is not what this post is about.

It’s about that one line from “Dead Man” that I used to particularly love: “Do you know what I mean when I say I don’t want to be alone?”

But now, when I think of that song, I can help but think of how many times in the past year I’ve wanted to just scream at everyone to leave me the hell alone. To stop interrupting me with nothing to say, simply because they’re bored. To stop offering their opinion on how I should be conducting my life, getting a job, choosing a grad program, getting a date. Everyone’s got a goddamn opinion, and I’m sick of most of them. Especially the ones coming from people who I’d like to be able to respect, but don’t because their faults glare out at me like their announced in neon over their heads. There are very few people who I love in a sense other than the “required” loving of all people. There are even fewer who I respect, or like. (I have a hard time liking people I don’t respect, and maybe that makes sense).

There’s a chance this makes me a bad Christian- no. No, that’s not what I mean. I mean that I dread that my frustration with people and desire to embrace my introverted nature is contrary to what Christ would want from me. I do fear that.

But Jesus didn’t say that I have to put my family before everyone and everything else, and that if I don’t tell them every choice I make, and think/function as part of a group. And that I’m making people worry too much and running out of chances when I change my mind. No, no I’m pretty sure that all came from my mother. Or someone a lot like her.

I have no idea. NO DAMN IDEA what living like Christ actually looks like. And sometimes I get sick of fretting about it. Because I already feel like I have my very nature and personality against me-because it doesn’t FIT with what contemporary upper middle class American society thinks a college graduate should be like. And I’m sick of fighting myself, of calling myself “defective” because I don’t seem to be very good at this whole being alive thing.

Fuck that. I savor listening to Sufjan and the rain and sitting out in my car reading by street lamp. And tea with milk and sugar. And bizarre encounters in restrooms that remind me that God’s right in the middle of all this, working out the kinks we force on ourselves and showing us how to love others while still begging us to love ourselves. No, not! love ourselves selfishly, but for fucksake, love and treat and know ourselves to be Beloved and Beyond All Measurable Worth because He Loves us. And, well, shit, He loves everyone else too, so how is it that we dare to hate them, how is it that I continue to hate myself, the way that we/I do?

Anyway, all that to say: I fucking know how to be alive. Because I know peace and understanding and sorrow and how to love the feel of cat fur or the smell of rain and still (sometimes) forgive myself for not practicing guitar today. Maybe I’m not making any sense, maybe I’m an over-emotional, self-righteous asshole (or something less dramatically self-deprecating and therefore true). But I do know what it’s like to be alive, to LIVE.

And it isn’t in sitting around my room watching tv online because I’m so terrified I’m screw up to let myself think about anyone but fictional characters that I adore. But maybe it comes out of that, through that. Maybe out of and through all the tromping around those dark forests full of cardboard trees I begin to understand that I’m allowed to need to be alone and undisturbed to find my peace of mind. Or that I’m allowed to freak out and be irrational sometimes. That I’m not even SUPPOSE TO BE this person I think they think I should be. Wouldn’t that be nice?

This is not what I had intended to write.

High Fidelity & Myers-Briggs

First Lines: “What came first, the music or the misery?…Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?” -Rob

INFJ
creative, smart, focus on fantasy more than reality, attracted to sad things, fears doing the wrong thing, observer, avoidant, fears drawing attention to self, anxious, cautious, somewhat easily frightened, easily offended, private, easily hurt, socially uncomfortable, emotionally moody, does not like to be looked at, fearful, perfectionist, can sabotage self, can be wounded at the core, values solitude, guarded, does not like crowds, organized, second guesses self, more likely to support marijuana legalization, focuses on peoples hidden motives, prone to crying, not competitive, prone to feelings of loneliness, not spontaneous, prone to sadness, longs for a stabilizing relationship, fears rejection in relationships, frequently worried, can feel victimized, prone to intimidation, lower energy, strict with self

favored careers:
psychotherapist, artist, art curator, bookstore owner, freelance writer, poet, teacher (art, drama, english), library assistant, professor of english, painter, novelist, book editor, copywriter, philosopher, environmentalist, bookseller, museum curator, opera singer, magazine editor, archivist, music therapist, screenwriter, film director, creative director, librarian, social services worker, art historian, sign language interpreter, photo journalist, makeup artist, photo journalist, homemaker

disfavored careers:
airline pilot, race car driver, businessman, information technology consultant, executive, administrator, supervisor, bartender, lab technician, restaurant owner, strategist, ceo, bar owner, marketing specialist, business consultant

To Grad School Or Not To Grad School…

First, a recap of MYPLAN, so far:

BA in PSYCH (boring), BA in LITERATURE/WRITING. Internships in Hollywood, work at CAMP. Camp leadership is a pain, move back home. No jobs in Modesto, to LA to WORK IN MOVIES. A zillion interviews but not enough shiny in me, temp job at a hospital. Development of a severe hatred of coworkers, decide to do undergrad PUBLISHING PROGRAM to escape. Read O’Malley series + want to help people, want to be a superhero. Superheros not real, decide to become a TRAUMA PSYCHOLOGIST. No BA means MA before PhD, couldn’t start any program till fall 2010.

A year at parent’s back in Modesto, no jobs, at all. Stay here to do PSYCH MA at Stan State, or move to PORTLAND for MA. No money, no job. Still really would rather be a SUPERHERO/VIGILANTE or VAMPIRE, but neither exist (supposedly). Don’t want to by trauma psychologist just so I can pretend to be a superhero. Can be and do whatever I want when writing. Sad escape attempt? Maybe…

So I can either:
A. move to Portland in Jan and start an MA in Psych next fall (con: no moneys)
B. get my MA in Psych at Stan State (cons: Modesto= no culture + no jobs)
C. go somewhere and get a double MA in Psych and English (con: more loans!)
D. get a grad degree in English and eventually teach (con: everyone keeps telling me what to do, and it’s this. and I do not like being told how to live my life)
E. don’t go to grad school, get a job here, write here (cons: no jobs + helicopter parents + no way to eventually get out of here)
F. don’t go to grad school, move somewhere with better weather, get a job, write (cons: rent + no moneys + no guarantee I’ll write + no degree to fall back on + no guarantee of a job)

Really though, wherever I go, there’s no promise of a job, or that I’ll write. I just have to learn to MAKE myself write, and keep trudging out into the world until I GET a job. So really it’s either RENT or PARENTS and MORE LOANS or NO MA/PhD. Right now I’d like to run off to the coast or woods and write, but am I just escaping? am I just being reckless? Am I too old to excuse my reckless running off and dreaming of being a semi-starving artist/writer/ordinary radical? I’m only 23, but I am nearly 24. But writing is what makes me feel most connected, most like I’m contributing something rather than always consuming. And it lets me perch on that fence between what is and what I’d like to be (with all it’s dark and twisty-ness)- it lets me like it and use it. It lets me dip my fingers into it and fingerpaint it into something that resembles the truth as I see it (even if realists call me wrong and naive: maybe I WANT to be naive and breakable).

Would trauma counseling really be a tangible way of helping people, or would I get lost in the bureaucracy and paperwork and mediocrity- all the while pissed off because I’ll feel nothing like a superhero? I want excitement! I want intrigue! I want to live a life that allows me to utilize that part of my personality that plunges feet first into the darkness and be that person who’s heart breaks for the villains, (so long as, at the end of the day, when I am facing the true Evil, I’m able to stare it down and cry: You cannot touch me! I belong to HIM. You can hurt me and even kill me; but you will NEVER truly touch me, because I am HIS!) I want to be able to bring back bits of that phony dark world, show Him what I’ve learned, and use that to paint a reflection of empathy– without negating righteous fury or endlessly redeeming Love.

YES! I am afraid of the real evils of the world; sometimes I would love nothing more than to tear to piece myself all the cruel: the oppressors and abusers and murderers and rapists and molesters and traffickers and willfully ignorant and intolerant. Some seem beyond reach, but even they aren’t beyond Him! Still, perhaps they are beyond me, and that may even be okay. Because they’re not beyond others. And perhaps what *I* am suppose to do is remind everyone that our fictional villains are mostly reflections of our fears and twisted desires and hopelessness. Through them, I can see how to love the broken, those who do a little breaking of their own. And maybe I’M not strong enough to go in and face the real darkest of the dark in people, but maybe I don’t need to be ready for that now. Or ever.

There are other parts of The Body. Those who will stay here. Those who will go into government. Those who will go into prisons or be missionaries in so many of our broken countries (on both sides of the Equator). Some will heal bodies as doctors, repair emotions and thought processes as therapists, heal hearts with speeches or songs or yoga. Some will feed and clothe and converse. Perhaps I CAN see beyond both sides of the fence, and write the truth as I understand it, stay in the background, listen, interject and joke and laugh and be silent– and not hate myself for it. Perhaps my biggest problem is that I think I’m broken or defective because I don’t look like the other leaders- the speakers or greeter or people on the front lines. Maybe I don’t have to be!

(But something so hard to believe, in myself, is made near impossible when it seems that no one else believes I should be that way either. Am I just hiding? Am I toying with darkness to escape boredom? Am I irresponsible because I don’t know what secure career to choose, because I keep changing my mind?)

Je ne sais pas. JE NE SAIS PAS… I just don’t know…