I have decided to take a little break from blogging. I’ll be back, maybe after the summer? I’m working on developing some healthier boundaries in my relationship with my computer. This may or may not have something to do with having recently seen Wall-E. In the meantime, I’m trying to cultivate some more analog activites into my daily routine, including but not limited to: coffee breaks, walks, and letter-writing. Feel free to get in touch and suggest other such activities you’d be interested in pursuing along with me.
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The two first items on my Google Reader today: Tina at Scatterplot, writing that misfortunes highlight how lucky I am, and A. over at On My Commute, who is feeling lucky no longer putting off the inevitable. A double-whammy of good advice to quit whining and get some perspective — coincidence, or just good luck? So as I grind through the end of one more semester, no job on the horizon, but a very generously-funded fellowship, a great group of scholar-friends, and hours every day to do work I deeply enjoy, I think — eh, not the worst life in the world, not by far.
I keep thinking back on Emily’s post of a few weeks ago about learning how to manage your time and be more productive, but also feeling suspicious of that tendency — like, wtf with all this being productive all the time? I’m wondering again why the work overload in academia goes so unquestioned. It’s complained about, for sure, but at the same time, undergirding a publish or perish imperative is an ethos of suffer or see-ya. As in — this is how it is, you must work all the time, and express your desire to work all the time, or this just may not be the career path for you. While I recognize the privilege of academic work over other kinds of labor, I also recognize that never has anyone suggested to me that a 40-hour work week exists in the academy. (And not that I think 40 hours is reasonable anyway…) For me, the great lure of academia is having less structure imposed on my time. The flip side of this, of course, is that work time bleeds right into living time. When I was temping, in the late 90s (ah, the heady late 90s), I felt I was much more engaged with others in a critique of capitalism in our everyday lives. And so when I slacked off at a temp job, I felt I was sticking it to the man. (I believe I actually referred to it, following Michel de Certeau, as la perruque, because I took myself just that seriously.) But I also just enjoyed it — long lunch breaks, writing letters to friends on the clock, learning about this thing called “the internet” and the various distractions it promised. Now, when I shuck off work, I just feel bad about myself.
So, in the midst of being behind on virtually everything I could feel behind on, I’m thinking about how to get stuff done, but go easier on myself in the process. I am thinking of this as really late capitalism — late to finish the draft of that revise and resubmit, late to get to the library. Hell, this blog post took me two weeks to write. But as Greg’s old supervisor used to say, “We’re living a life,” and I’d like mine to be lived a little more slowly. Is that so wrong?
(It’s no Oscars night or VMA, but how else am I supposed to pass the time?)
10:20 — The halls of justice are really over-heated and dry.
10:28 — The halls of justice have internet!
10:34 — Have updated FB status three times.
10:46 — Man in charge of my jury selection room is inviting all of us to a spin-class fundraiser for Live Strong.
11:22 — Nothing has happened. It’s still too warm and dry in here. This plus worry over my laptop battery dying makes me feel like I’m on an airplane.
12:04 — Have scored a cubicle with outlet, no longer in panic over battery.
12:25 — I don’t always love Gawker, but I gotta hand it to them for having a category called Obama Hotties.
12:34 — Have been dismissed for lunch. Advised not to drink.
Tomorrow, I report for my civic duty: waiting around for two days while I am not selected to sit on a jury. I would love to make it onto a jury. But if ever for some reason I wanted to get out of jury duty, I would draw from Liz Lemon for inspiration.
My eyes have melted into my skull. This year I’ve vowed to get a handle on my information flows. (“Vowed” somehow sounds more compelling than “my New Year’s resolution is” … those words are the death knell for a plan if ever there was one.) After heeding this helpful advice and purging my inbox of 2,325 emails, I’ve spent the past two days consolidating email addresses, exporting contacts, importing contacts, creating filters, building calendars, and syncing calendars. I am determined to know the things I need to know to get through a week, and to reduce the amount of time it takes me to figure out what it is I need to be knowing. 2009, it’s all about TSM vs. Web 2.0, and I’m going to win.
Speaking of modern struggles, it used to be at the end of a messy break-up you just filled up a shoebox, set it on fire, and changed your phone number. These days, you’ve got profile links to sever, emails and text messages to purge, Flickr accounts to shut down. Here to take all that painful work off your hands, The Museum of Broken Relationships (h/t The Colby Project). In their efforts to “preserve the material and nonmaterial heritage of broken relationships,” the Museum allows you to dump your detritus on them — and if you’re having trouble letting go, to lock it up:
By registering on the web pages of the Museum you become its donor and here you can store everything that reminds you of your bygone love: e-mails, photographs, SMS messages. If your memories still trigger off painful memories “lock” your exhibits for a specified period: 3 months, 6 months or however long you need for recovering.
Heartbreaking, sure. But amazing.
I was going to head out to do work someplace besides the single room that constitutes my office/bedroom/living room/kitchen, and then I heard that the (unfortunately re-named) Hopscotch Cafe (formerly Alt Coffee) has closed! Though I sort of missed the anarchist decor of the Alt Coffee days (couches with no springs, piles of broken computer monitors in the bathroom), I have appreciated the relative calm and reliable wifi of Hopscotch. Why are there no good coffeeshops in this stupid city? Unless you want to spend 20 bucks at a fake french bistro, there is nowhere to go in this godforsaken place, I swear. This is why Greg and I have decided that, if academia doesn’t work out, we are going to open your dream coffeeshop. It will be called Secret Amazing Cafe, but the regulars will just call it Secret Amazing. They will come for the good lighting, friendly staff, fresh baked scones and music selections that strike the perfect balance between interesting but not distracting or pretentious. They will say “Hi Craig” or “Hi Greg” when they come in, and they will know which of us is which. They will think, “I always knew there must be some secret amazing cafe I just hadn’t discovered yet, and I am so glad that I finally did.” Everyone will get work done, and they will all be happy. On the weekends, when their parents are in town visiting, they will come for the unlimited mimosa brunch, and take a needed and deserved respite from their work.
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