Meanderings & Motivation

Penelope Trunk wrote in the Brazen Careerist that maintaining a blog is hard work. Takes dedication and more than a little motivation to send duck calls that no one is likely to read out into the world. And I'm not sure if the purpose of a blog is to have as many people following you as possible. Apart from a one-post domain of blackness I started and set aside while depressed in Portugal, I'm new to this game. But since I'm not a brazen careerist and do not consider this to be a popularity contest, I'll go the traditional way for the time being and look at it as an online notebook. Some time ago a self-confident former academic gave the quirky UMCS university crowd a lecture on various things, most notably his life. Though his self-confessed proficiency in Portuguese (gained through - invaluable tip - total immersion) is highly doubtful, he did mention the value of writing down thoughts every day. And dammit, that's what we do. Your blog is your diary. Your blog is your resume. Your blog is your escapist fantasy. It's whatever you want it to be. The only condition, to my eyes, is that you be sincere. Once you're a famed blogger, you can start thinking about lying to your masses or throwing publicity stunts. But on a small scale, this is an exercise in self-discovery.

And it's probably a more useful waste of time than Facebook.

And so there are some things about me I want to say to me.

The primary concern in my life is leaving this city. It doesn't help that my university studies fail to give me the kick of inspiration that certainly comes when you know that you're gaining access to priceless knowledge. The languages I study interest me insofar as they are practical, but I am neither decided on what I will choose them to be practical for nor am I in the least bit inclined to get down on my knees and accept the fate of a godforsaken linguist the higher-ups are forcing you to take. They slap you around and think they can mold you like hot wax. Not likely. If I do fall into the disillusioned student category, it's because there's much to be disillusioned by.

But I digress.

A necessary evil. That's what it is. It has to be swallowed down to make room for bigger and better things. Sometimes my natural impatience gets the better of me. Sometimes I feel paranoid because the whole combination of factors in the last few years left much to be desired, and in the long run led to a little slimming-down to bone level, not to mention those exciting meetings with Portuguese psychologists and those equally exciting antidepressants that inexplicably failed to trigger much of an effect. Tuneluz, they were called. Fluoxetine. Other problems and much hilarity ensued. One such problem was - I believe - a sort of lexical anhedonia (don't worry, no one else has ever heard of it either) which made most reading feel like a relaxing day on the torture rack, with thoughts running the gamut from the inability to concentrate on a sentence to feeling unable to extract deeper meaning, and to reaching the conclusion that the world in all its simplicity and complexity is way too complicated for me to understand the way things run. Plus there was the nagging feeling that I'm not able to grasp or remember the totality of what I'm reading. That and the inability to make it known to those who wouldn't understand drove me further into it. Shall I leave unanswered the question of whether I used my scholarship in Portugal to the fullest?

Other neat psychological distortions are to be described in another joyous post.

One final thought, and it's about love. Two days ago, I was given a rotund all-around slap-around when I found out out of the blue that a close friend of mine had started to have feelings for me. This came out in a confrontation that I was expecting to be a series of complaints on how irresponsible I am as a friend who takes ages to answer a simple message and makes empty promises. Instead, I got a slice of another cake. I never did feel more than a strong bond of friendship between us, and never picked up on the waves she said she was sending. My waves she misinterpreted. This was the first situation of the kind in years, and I don't remember myself ever being the actual rejector. I didn't go through it like a smooth-talking Hugh Grant in another ho-hum rom-com. More like a one-eyed rhino stumbling in a drunken stupor through a corridor gallery of priceless china. But it did end positively, as I knew it would, and I don't expect any particular awkward situations in the future. Didn't help me being puzzled by my indifference and lack of any strong emotional reaction following the encounter. On the one hand, that could point towards a disconcerting lack of emotion. But since I'm no longer suicidal, I prefer to attribute it to something entirely different: adulthood.

Good or bad, it's a fact of life.