Lachrymose Matters and Eventually a Lesson in Panbiodoros--The Division of Renjitsu that Deals with ArtScience

I just returned from a staff "retreat" that began at 8:45 this morning. [We "retreated" to a large painting studio on the second floor; breakfast and lunch was provided. No massages or facials.] Despite my bitchy bitterness I realized during the meeting that I do truly love this job. Sure, the pay is shit. Even crappy Southern Oregon University pays their Library Assistants about $12 per hour and the Eugene Public library pays their "paraprofessionals" $13.89-$17.30 per hour. I make $9.25. Yeah. [oh wait, I think I now make $9.48 with the "cost-of-living" increase.]

Sincerely though, I really like some of the people who work here and I feel that my job is important. I am proud of the work I do and the way that we, in the library, support the entire institution. 'Tis a sad thing when an expensive, private art school can not pay its staff adequately, provide up-to-date technology, or draw esteemed faculty.

Which reminds me... This all comes after a severe disappointment--in myself and the world. I recently learned that a colleague and her husband are moving to L.A. The husband works for the local museum. In the library. [I have desperately applied for two jobs at said museum in the last year.] Well, two positions opened up and I intended to apply for both of them. Weeeeeell, I, being the idiot-busy-procrastinator that I am, waited too long. I wrote two beautiful and heart-felt cover letters, but that same day, the online applications were removed. Through e-mail correspondence with the library director, I found that they were not accepting any more applications because they already had received 95. I did not even have the chance to apply to my dream job. Why? Because I suck. Ach, that bites. [Of course, I mean that literally, not like a surfer.]

What is the lesson here, Saturn? Are you gnawing on my ass so that I will focus on graduate school? Is that horrible pinching sensation in my thorax a reminder that I am not a teenager anymore and therefore must work harder, faster, smarter for anything that I want? I still haven't told my mom about the job situation because the day before The Disappointment she was prodding me to submit my applications while instead I was reading Harry Potter.

So to quell and/or stifle the pain of my loserhood I choose to immerse myself in creative projects and try to weasel a promotion at my current job. Brain juices were stewing last night as I thought of all the deliciously creative people I know and then decided to make them all come together in a glorious and spaztastic orgy of art. By the way, I just found out that there's a part of the human brain called the Arachnoid granulations (Number 2 on the diagram below.) I think that the juices that stewed were the fluids in the Interpeduncular cistern (number 14) because I believe that my creativity is deeply embedded in the center of my grey-wad. Why do I believe this?

Postulation:
If my creativity came from the cerebrospinal fluid contained in the cerebellomedullary cistern, or cisterna magna (number 22), then it would be a hell of a lot easier to access.

Woo.

Well. This weekend should be interesting.

Today I work the pearl farmer's market.
Tomorrow I get to pour some beer at the Portland International Beerfest.
Saturday farmer's market and possibly some theatre.
Sunday, beer again.
Monday I may model for my friend Samantha. Her work is amazing, but I am a bit nervous.

Here's a nice thing that my comrades at the library made of my reminder...

So good. So good.

I am listening to Def Leppard and it makes me so happy, I think I peed a little. And I don't care. However, I did get Sharpie on my cream-colored linen pants. Beee-ad. Oh, oh, guitar solo. I gotta go.

One Classy Lady

Oh, and Jennie Smash is the shit. Too bad she's far away. I would make her be my friend.

The Perfume of Chagrin

As I roll ambivalently into another weekend, I am thinking about "Dancer in the Dark." Knowing that someone else, albeit a fictional character, sees musical-theatre choreography to the sounds of the world makes me feel a little less crazy. True, the movie ends tragically, but only Bjork and her amazing voice could have been Selma and inspired me so.

My photo project feels like a nagging crick in my neck, annoyingly there and exorcizable, but one must know the appropriate incantations. (Note: As an educated and fairly intelligent person, I reserve the right to make up words when necessary.) Blah blah, portraits. Everyone does that. What is it about my eye, my subjects, that make the images different, or at least worthy of consideration? My craft is not so great due to my extreme impatience, composition--meh, so-so, lighting.... etc. I intend to re-read some texts on anthropology because I remember being interested while in school. Now that the nasty cotton-swaddling of school-trauma brain-death has been unwrapped, I feel like I may get more out of the readings.

Ach, sometimes I feel so zygotic all mooshed up into a little pod, slowly going through cleavage. Stupid little birdie, get out of the shell for christsakes! I will talk to more people even if they make me uncomfortable. I will carry my camera with me. I will eat less dairy and drink less beer. (A tear wends its way from the corner of my eye and down my cheek.)

Approximately 14 years ago, I was in Paris during Fête Nationale. My sister and I woke to the building shaking and the ground rumbling. We ran to the balcony and caught tanks oozing through the streets. The city was indeed gay and colorful and smelly and beautiful. I cannot smell freesias and diesel exhaust without thinking of that week.

Bored.

Question: when the hell will people get over seeing erect nipples through cloth? I do not deny that they are titillating, but seriously, get the fuck over it. Thank you.