HALP!

Aug. 25th, 2010 02:34 pm
mhuzzell: (Crabby)
So, remember how I didn't get into the MSc programme in St Andrews? I've just gotten an email offering me a place after all (apparently I was only rejected 'cause they'd made too many offers or something), and I don't know whether or not I want to take them up on it, and even if I did know I have NO way of funding it except maybe begging family members for loans/gifts (I looked into this when initially applying -- I'm ineligible for pretty much every institutional or government loan, either by virtue of being too American or not American-resident enough; and by this point it would be too late to apply for any of them anyway.)

I don't know what to DOOOOO! And this is happening at a point of particular agony and flux, since I'm moving out of my flat at the end of the month and I still don't know quite where I'd be moving to and some friends and I were going to meet up tonight and talk about whether to all move into this one flat together or whether Harry and I should move into this other flat and they go their separate ways or whatever and AUGH. INDECISION!

Any advice would be very much appreciated.
mhuzzell: (Default)
I got a letter this morning. I didn't get into the postgrad programme I'd applied for. In a way, it's a relief, since now I don't have to decide not to do it, or figure out how the hell to fund it if I'd made the unlikely decision to go through with it. Having already (mostly) decided not to take it, I feel more indignant than rejected. Like, what do you mean I'm not good enough for you? I would ace the hell out of that course. But I dislike academia anyway.

Also, I found out that apparently it's possible to submit articles for academic publication even if one is not a member of an ivory tower. Presumably one is generally expected to have academic qualifications, but (according to my friend, at least), most journals that call for open submissions will review the article on its own merits before investigating the sender. So there's a chance to make a name for myself without submitting to the soul-crushing pressures of further education. Although it would be nice to still have someone else drawing up reading lists for me.

I don't know if I've yet mentioned it in this journal, but my latest ambition is to write a book. Grad school was meant to be a helpful step in that direction (it being on a relevant subject), but I figure I can do it on my own -- and on my own timescale. Right now, of course, I'm still in the preliminary research stages. I don't know quite what it is yet, but I am quite certain that I have Something To Say.
mhuzzell: (Monty Python)
Apologies if you've already read this rant/ramble. I put it up on my "real blog" ages ago, but apparently no one reads that one? Anyway, I've been pretty non-interactive on the internets recently. Wish I could say I've been doing stuff out in the Real World, but actually I've just been reading more physical books, as opposed to pixels. But I figured I should post something to let y'all know I'm still (sort of) around.

Gender and Sexuality in Star Trek: TNG )

ETA: Salon article on the same theme: http://dir.salon.com/ent/feature/2001/06/30/gay_trek/print.html
mhuzzell: (Icarus)
As a combined result of my continual inability to get to sleep before 2 am, and my neighbours' deck-construction starting around 8:30 am every morning this week, I am insanely sleep-deprived right now. And by 'insanely' I do not mean 'intensely' but rather 'in the manner of a person who is not sane'. That is, I am having weird paranoias, like the paranoia that if I go to sleep I will have a frightening dream about being chased by giant fish.

This is not wholly unfounded; at least three different times (possibly many more), I have had nightmares about being chased/eaten by giant fish. In one of these, it was a frightening, toothy, pike-like fish, but the other two were simply giant versions of normally harmless fish. In one I was being chased around and around a small pond by a humongous goldfish or carp; the other is sort of hazy but I remember being pursued by an even-larger-than-life sunfish-like fish.

And because I have been thinking about it (and I have no self control) I have been reading the wikipedia page about sunfish. (Sidenote: baby sunfish are adorable!) So, as I say, the worry is not wholly unfounded. But it is a bit silly. As is the mental image of giant versions of otherwise harmless fish as a personification of the malevolent forces and dangers of the Great Unknown, in my dreams.
mhuzzell: (Default)
I started to do a photo-meme from Camlina, but I decided it was taking too long, and I wasn't going to spend my one and only life trying to decide on my favourite food or figure out if I have a celebrity crush, just to show you all interesting photographic representations of them.

However, while hunting, I found this guy Holden Richards's flickr, with lots of really excellent b/w pictures of central North Carolina. Check it out:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/holdenrichards/4560468544/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/holdenrichards/4463958433/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/holdenrichards/3549241043/ (last is my favourite)

Anyway, updates: life goes on. Still waiting to hear about the postgrad, but it's looking unlikely for this year. Still trying to figure out what to do with the Rest of My Life -- or even the rest of this year, this summer, this month, this week. Tomorrow. I go to work and then I come home and I'm not really sure what happens in between anymore.

I've been meaning to write, though, about going to and from work. Part of my walk is through this little grassy plain that is sort of half golf course, half public green, all criss-crossed with paths and a bike trail. It's making me sort of re-evaluate my feelings about golf courses -- or at least it's putting some constraints on my previously unconditional hatred of them.

For the most part, of course, golf courses are horrific, elitist, environmentally-destructive affairs that flood their local landscapes and watercourses with fertilizer and their local economies with crappy, low-paying service jobs. This, however, is a truly public space. I mean, it's not a full golf course -- I don't really know how that works, but it is only short-shot holes on it, no long drives or anything like that -- but it is certainly a golf course of some form, and it's always covered in golfers now that the weather is warm. Furthermore, it is covered in all sorts of people playing golf. Sure, most of them are still old men and young jackasses, but in comparison to most golfers (and believe me, I have seen plenty), there is a stunning social diversity among the players -- women and children and punky teenagers and dreadlocked hippies. Really. And all of it interspersed with non-golfers frolicking and sunning themselves and running their dogs through the grass, with nobody telling them not to even though there are non-golfing public greens on either side of this one. I like it.
mhuzzell: (Crabby)
UK packaged food labelling has recently started to have these little "traffic light" guides on it, where foods will be categorized as 'green', 'amber', or 'red' based on healthiness. Sometimes these are subdivided into different categories -- as on my box of cereal, which says it is 'green' for fat content but 'red' for sugar content (heh).

...And then it says it is 'green' for 'calories'. What?? Since when is 'energy contained in this food' something that is healthy or not? I mean, I had understood the colour-labelling of the other categories (fat, sugar, fibre, etc.) to be proportional measures -- i.e. this is a sugary food because it has a lot of sugar per serving. But calories -- I would have thought -- are the base agaisnt which some of the others might be measured. Right? Or maybe it means 'calories per volume', where cereal has very few and something like cake or meat has quite a lot.

In any case, foods with a lot of calories per volume are not (necessarily) any less healthy than foods with a low calorie::volume count. And it makes me angry. Angry and ranty.

Because, you see, I spent a long time in my overweight early-teens "counting calories" as a weight-loss strategy. It didn't work. It just made me hyper-aware of my food, and even though I lost a little weight, it didn't make any long-term difference, and my diet ended up being a lot less healthy than it might have been otherwise, because I would do things like forego the meatier parts of my meals in order to "spend" my allotted calories on ice cream later.

Worse, it set up in my mind this idea of 'calories (=food energy!) = BAD!' Or, okay, I probably got the idea to count calories in the first place because that idea had already been culturally implanted. My mom and aunt were in Weight Watcher's at the time, and the idea of calories and the counting of them seemed to be ever-present in the pages of women's magazines -- which still managed to worm their way into my head, even though I never properly read them; but they were always there in doctors' and dentists' and other waiting rooms (and indeed in the lobby of the Weight Watcher's, whenever my mom had to bring me along and leave me waiting during her dietary group-therapy).

Nowadays I have an utterly different perspective. I eat to fill my belly, and there is no chance that I would consider 'calories' (=food energy!) to be any kind of inherently bad thing. If anything, they are an inherently good thing! I still struggle to maintain a healthy diet, even though I have long since dropped out of the 'overweight' category. But now that means "a diet that will give me enough energy and vitamins to go about my life" rather than "a diet that will make me thin". There was a time this winter when I was buying these little pre-mixed chocolate milk things instead of lunch (like I said, I struggle) because they were cheaper than food and required no prep, while having just as many calories as a meal, and filling me up as much. And I would often go for the higher-calorie "chocolate brownie" flavour above the plain chocolate flavour, purely because the former had more calories for the same price. Which is, like, utterly unhealthy -- but only because I was drinking them to replace a meal, not because 'calories' are somehow 'bad for you'.

And then so

Apr. 6th, 2010 10:46 pm
mhuzzell: (Monty Python)
Well. It's been a while.

I went to America and visited family, which was nice. Harry came too. Will expand this later (with actual thoughts), but that is not the point of this particular entry.

Right now I am back home again. I got off the bus yesterday evening to find a city that seemed made of air, and all of it moving. I pushed and fought and struggled home through it, dragging my suitcase, exhausted and sweaty and kind of needing to pee, and for that half hour hating everything and wondering why I live here. And then I came in and Jen was making salsa and Oli and Nice Daniel were holding some kind of band practice, and I remembered.

Then I went to work today and it was still light when I left at 7, and I felt all full of joy even though it was raining. And I've just had a shower and I even like this flat again, for a little while. It's icy cold in winter (and autumn and spring and I suspect also summer) and full of mice and surrounded by noisy neighbours, but it has the loveliest shower.

And I was thinking, while in that shower, about the heaps of work I need to do for my internship; about how when I got this internship I thought "hey, it's all work on the internet -- that'll be great, I spend loads of time on the internet already so it'll be super-easy!", but it turns out that work on the internet is still work; and have since come to the conclusion that it's an eminently bad idea to have work in the same medium as most of your leisure time, becuase (at least for me) they then get all blurred together and I procrastinate even more.

And then I thought "wait a minute: am I a Montessori kid or what?" -- maybe a cheesy way to put it, but it was all in my head because both my parents and like everybody on my mom's side of the family are Montessori teachers, so having just visited them it was all fresh in my mind -- anyway, the point is: there is no difference between work and play. Montessori intentionally blurs these boundaries, with many of the learning materials being collectively called 'works' and often individually called 'games' or something similar, and having a play-like structure (e.g. early math 'works' include things like 'the stamp game', 'racks and tubes', 'the binomial cube', etc.) It's not all perfect and rosy, of course, but at a basic level, it is pretty hard to train kids into self-directed learning if you can't get them to want to do stuff.

I used to be like that, always wanting to stay inside and play with the science kits or do more square root problems (on the 'pegboard') instead of playing outside where I would be obliged to run around in the uncomfortable heat. Then, somewhere along the way, all these external motivations started coming in. I got praised for my work, and then graded for it, and within a year I was doing it for the grades, and not for its own sake, and I discovered that I am actually a master procrastinator. Now I just have this pile of stuff that I need to get done, but I have managed to create a 'work' box in my head and I can't get it out of it.
mhuzzell: (Icarus)
I shuffled home drunk from the staff party at like 1:30 am [now] last night, and probably got to sleep around 2 with a belly full of instant noodles and cake. Slept deeply for a few hours and then woke up at 4:20 in that overheated drunken way that one sometimes wakes up. I drank a bunch of water and tossed and turned for the next hour and a half.

At 5:40, now long sober, I noticed a slow grey light creeping around the edge of the curtain (which on investigation turned out to be from the kitchen light reflecting off the tree in the garden, but by the time I found this out the sky was lightening), and decided the time had come for the always-bad decision to just give up and get up. The thought of doing so made me tired, so I lay back hopefully for another 20 minutes, but couldn't keep my eyes closed.

Even so, the few hours of tossing and turning came on the back of another few of actual sleep, and so, while just as annoying, tonight has been much less soul-destroying than normal insomnia. At least, I assume that is normal. That is what I mean most of the time when I complain about it here. Not so much "tossing and turning" as "helpless despair". By comparison, a night of actual tossing and turning is not so bad.

Nor have I been despairing much in general, lately. I dropped a heavy ceramic vase/ornament-thing on my head on Wednesday, and apart from the sore spot have felt pretty good since then. I am trying to think that maybe I have killed off the depressed part of my brain. I know it doesn't work that way, but I can dream. I've also been actually taking the magnesium supplements my mother keeps sending me, and getting drunk every other night, hanging out with friends every night, and getting lots of housework done, which makes me feel productive. In reality, it's probably mostly the last two that are making the difference, and anyway I'm getting a little superstitious even mentioning this rare upswing in mood, because doing so so often seems to precede a major crash. Touch wood, touch wood.

It is properly dawn now.
mhuzzell: (Icarus)
I've just re-read Asimov's 'The Rest of the Robots'. I don't actually remember reading it the first time, it's only that every time I started a new story, I realised a page or two in that I'd read it before. I persisted, though, because they are pretty entertaining, Asimov's hard-on for Susan Calvin notwithstanding (oh man, that is such a topic -- but for another time). Anyway, this time around I have Some Thoughts.

For one thing, I never noticed before just how very very dated these stories are. It's not just that the people in them are the people of Asimov's time, transported to random future-times that seem absurd now that we've had 50 years of social change in between. He also (inadvertantly) draws attention to that fact in his introduction -- which is essentially an essay about what he calls 'the Frankenstein complex', in which he states his intention that his robot stories would be different to those of his predecessors. Instead of a fist-shaking 'what hath man wrought??' ethos of Man's Abominable Creations Run Amok, his would be logical, useful machines that only ever harmed anything through human or mechanical error.

He ties it back to Faust, of course, and the ancient human obsession with the Dangers of Forbidden Knowledge, a criticism with which I very much agree. However, the ordinary folk in the stories still react to the robots as though they were rampaging Frankenstein's Monsters. I get that Asimov was most likely trying to make a point by showing such reactions (though of course it is also the point of dramatic tension on which several of the stories turn), but having every lay-person in every story react with the same comical, mindless terror upon encountering a robot just drives home the inevitable observation that these are not modern people. We've had 50 years of development. We've grown into our technology slowly. We don't have positronic brains just yet, but if and when we do develop Asimov-style robots, they are not going to be terrifying except to a Luddite few, and even then the repugnance is more likely to be based in hatred and an abstract Fear for Humanity than in animal fear.

Some of the dated-ness is more humourous, of course. The final story in the book, "Galley Slave" was written in 1957 while the author was in the midst of proof-reading a biochemistry textbook. It features a proof-reading robot. "Congratulations," says any modern reader, "you've invented spell-check." Although of course, the robot is much more attuned to the nuances of language than MS Word, and never makes mistakes. There is, however, a minor typographical error within the story.

Finally, on the subject of printer's errors, the back of the book is the most hilarious of all. It is a 1976 reprint of a 1968 edition, and I guess Asimov was pretty justified in his writing of the human characters for decades after their initial publication, because Panther describes it as "Isaac Asimov's final, classic, terrifying picture of robotic developments in the future -- here in paperback for the first time." Emphasis mine.
mhuzzell: (Default)
I've been home alone most of the day, reading Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit. Oli needed someone to be in because he's expecting some van parts, and I don't really mind. I've been in my pyjamas all day, because why not?, though I put some jeans over them to feel less frumpy. It doesn't really work.

Sitting in the mostly-quiet of the kitchen, I've started to think of this room as some kind of organism. I'm inside the head, originally a breakfast nook that now serves as a sort of living room, stuffed with couches and home to the stereo and outlets for laptops. The clock ticks with a quiet lub-dub, and the homebrew on top of the fridge bubbles intermittently, like a happy, rumbling belly. The fridge itself is esophagal, full of temporary foods, while the cabinets stretch out along both long walls with their arms full of crockery and dry goods. Liquid waste goes down the sink, which also cleans things; dual purpose like human anatomy. Solid waste accumulates in the opposite corner and is occasionally removed all at once. A different structure to the human anatomy, then, though we still wash our hands afterwards.

The kitchen has no legs, though. We are its legs.
mhuzzell: (Default)
I think it is one of the strangest of awkward everyday experiences -- though perhaps more 'everyday' for those of us who are near-sighted and dreamy-headed than for normal people -- when you are walking along and see someone walking towards you who you think you know, maybe, but you're not sure ... and so you stare at them and try not to stare at them, and look a bit furtive, for several paces, until you are close enough to see that you've been staring at a total stranger, and try to casually look away as you pass by, hoping they don't think you're some sort of psychopath. Or maybe it's just me.

In any case, I had an especially strange instance of the above situation yesterday. I was walking across a little park, covered in bright and glaring snow in the hour before twilight (in that cloudy wintery sort of light, where the sun hasn't set yet but you have no idea where it is) when a man turned onto the path who had a gait that was a precise match for Russell -- first love, turbulent ex and oldest friend -- and for ten or fifteen seconds, staring and not staring at this heavily bundled-up young man ambling through the snow, I had a flash of impossible recognition for my friend who is 4,000 miles across the Atlantic.

Doin' Stuff

Dec. 6th, 2009 06:42 pm
mhuzzell: (Default)
I'm going to Copenhagen. I'm in London already, actually, stopped over at a friend's house en route, with another two-day stop planned in Amsterdam.

...And already, it is not turning out quite like I'd planned. My friend had to leave town at the last minute and hasn't actually been here to visit with, and plans for Amsterdam are starting to fall apart. So maybe it's a good thing I'm going in with low expectations for the climate conference/convergence itself?

Actually, reading up about the activist convergence that's planned, that is looking pretty damn awesome. Lots of really sound anarchist orgs have thrown themselves in to make the convergence pleasant and possible, with People's Kitchens and free sleeping spaces and that kind of thing. It's just the actions I don't have a lot of optimism about (nor, of course, the Conference itself).

I read a pamphlet recently decrying the emotion of 'hope', saying that the author had 'no hope' for environmentalism, and yet it was his very lack of hope that gave him the impetus and the strength to keep fighting as hard as he does. Hope, he said, is a passive and helpless emotion; like the offering of prayers to a god that doesn't exist or doesn't care, it is an abnegation of responsibility for action; it is passing the buck. In my own life, I have a superstitious injunction to myself to never look forward to anything, because with expectation there can only be disappointment. On both counts, then, I don't think that my lack of optimism for the conference(s) is merely cynicism. I am still going, after all. I will still lend a hand for The Cause; I'll still do what I can, when and where I can. I am just so very, very tired.
mhuzzell: (Icarus)
Growing up, the idea of this holiday always bothered me. Something about a day of feasting devoted, even according to its own mythology, to celebrating the initial generosity of a group of people who were later systematically exploited by the very people they'd helped just never sat quite right with me.

Then, when I was fourteen, I went to a hippie school who I thought might take a similar viewpoint to mine, and maybe boycott the whole affair, but instead they made an even bigger fuss over Thanksgiving than any other group I'd yet encountered. Their view of it was more abstract; not much to do with the history of the holiday, and a lot to do with being thankful for various things. It was essentially a harvest festival, which made a lot of sense for a community that grew most of its own vegetables.

My next school (which, incidentally, also produced a lot of food for itself) took a similar view, and by this time I was happy enough to go along with it -- but since graduating, I've slipped back into my old views of things. It helps that I've spent every Thanksgiving since graduation in the UK. I just can't separate the holiday's meaning from exploitation and genocidal wars in my mind, and so I've mostly done my best to ignore it.

All the same, I've been feeling the lack of a harvest festival. Especially here, where by November it gets SO DARK SO EARLY, and the sun rises so late. They say that mid-winter holidays like Christmas are important because of the light levels and the turning of the year and such -- and to keep people's spirits up through the cold dark winter -- but I find November far bleaker than December. Sure, December is the darkest month, but it's also the month when things start to turn and become light again. November is just a rapid decline into darkness.

That, and I'm homesick. I miss my family, and I miss the food of the US at this time. I've been having cravings for gourds that simply aren't available here -- the vast arrays of heirloom squashes and such that are so readily available back home. Pecans. Sweet potatoes. Sure, the latter are available here, but they're somehow not quite as nice when divorced from the context of family and feasting. It seems like there ought to be some sort of celebration happening to stave off the cold and darkness. Maybe not Thanksgiving, but something.
mhuzzell: (Crabby)
Back in the days when the Internet was young, and Web 2.0 had yet to be named (I still don't get that one, anyway -- it's the same Internet, ya know?), there was a lot of hemming and hawing among local news anchors and Parents with Children and people like that about what effect The Internet was going to have on the Socialization of Our Youth. They were worried that kids who spent too much time online "instead of socializing" were going to end up all developmentally stunted and socially malformed.

Of course, that didn't actually happen. The latest consensus, according to my magpie selection of internet psychology articles, is that social interaction on the internet shares a lot of the same qualities as social interaction in meatspace; although, at least one of them claimed, it can intensify existing tendencies by making social butterflies even more social (e.g. spending all their time on facebook) while allowing loners to further isolate themselves. I've no idea if this is true, but it makes sense to me. And me? I have social anxieties -- so the internet is just a whole new realm to be socially anxious about.

Facebook is the worst of all for this. It was always going to be, but when it first started it wasn't substantially different from, say, MySpace or Friendster. Same weird politics of "adding people", but nothing particularly new. Then it started adding features. Most of these are just annoying gadgets, and I won't go into how irritating they are, simply because the topic has been discussed at length, many times, and often offline. It takes up too much thought as it is. Two of the newer features really bug me, though.

The first is actually pretty old now, I guess, in internet terms. It's that little box of "people you may know", that shows you friends-of-friends on the off chance that you may know them, and decide to add them as a friend. It's actually pretty useful, and a good feature if the whole world were happy and everyone loved each other and no one built up crazy anxieties in their heads, but for me it is often troublesome. Because I keep seeing people in that box that I know I used to be face-friends with (and, in some cases, actual friends). But people grow apart, and some people actually take facebook seriously and only want to have their actual, current friends on their friends-lists, and that's okay. I guess. I mean, it's the same politics of de-friending and whatnot that existed before facebook -- only now, instead of finding out incidentally when you go to look for them and find that they're not on your list (which, if you have genuinely grown apart, you'd probably never do), you have a good chance of having it shoved in your face as soon as you open the home page.

Now, that box isn't even called "people you may know" anymore. It's been helpfully re-labelled "Suggestions", and displays one person you might want to 'friend', and another with whom you are already face-friends. This is where it gets creepy. Beside the picture of the person you already know, it suggests that you use some face-features to interact with them. Maybe I only find this particularly creepy because the first time it did that to me, it was to show me the face of a middle-school crush, with the message "Reconnect with him. Write on his wall." Um, excuse me? But that wasn't even the worst of it. It's also started to take it upon itself to remind me when I haven't spoken to someone on facebook recently, again inviting me to write on their wall. It's all fine and ignorable if it's some random acquaintance, but when it's actually a close friend (or, in the case that spurred this rant, my cousin), who I feel I actually ought to be talking to more than I do, I just feel like I'm being judged by robots. Robots that can just fuck off now, thanks.

ETA: Thank you, XKCD.

mhuzzell: (Default)
I woke up at 6 am today. I have no idea why -- I think I fell asleep around 1 -- but I'm awake now and I've been enjoying my unexpected extra hours of morning.

I guess my life is pretty good, generally speaking. I live in a cool flat with interesting people, I'm doing an internship about Genuinely Important Stuff, I have a job that is flexible and pretty fun, and I'm not working for anyone evil.* This is, upon reflection, pretty much exactly what I want to be doing with my life, at least for the time being. At least, given the paths I've taken so far; I am trying not to be wistful about the others. Besides, I think I'm finally recovered from getting spooked in April and falling into ennui after graduating, and am starting to ease myself back into activism. I'm not doing much (read: any) organising, but for now I'm happy enough just to be a body on the ground when needed.

Despite all this, I still often find myself tussling with an illogical, baffling melancholy. (So apologies, friends, if I am distant.) I'm worried about the onset of winter, and the ever-shorter days. At least I will be awake for all of it today, but I will spend most of that time indoors and out of the actual sunlight. I'm hoping that this winter will be easier than the others, but I have my doubts.

*There is a fantastic recurring sketch on the radio show 'That Mitchell and Webb Sound' in which various people are called in to have the usefulness of their jobs assessed by committee of little old ladies. The "workers" must explain what they do to the committee, which almost invariably finds them to be totally unnecessary and suggests that they go and open a little shop (with the exception of a plastic surgeon, who leaves with many apologies and the assurance that he will go and become a proper doctor now). Well, I do work in a little shop. It is quite nice!
mhuzzell: (Default)
Today, as I was walking into town, I noticed what appeared to be a small spider eating a tiny leaf that was caught in its web in the hedgerow. "No," I thought, "even a spider can't be that stupid," so I leaned in closer to look.

What the spider was actually doing was attempting to cut the leaf free of its web while repairing it at the same time. It was caught about midway down, in the cross-threads between two of the lower spokes of the orb. The spider sliced out the top part of the leaf and it fell downward, and the spider laid a few hasty threads behind it as it followed the leaf down. I was impressed. But before the spider could free the leaf entirely from the web, it fell a little further down and got caught on some more of the sticky fibres. The spider had it on a little reel and chased along after it, in an agonizingly slow dance, down and down, trying to spin out a patch behind it but finding it didn't have quite enough legs to manage it.

After a few minutes of this, the spider dropped the leaf (still clinging to the web, now a bit lower and with a long blank space above it) and ran to the centre of the web, where it twanged violently on the spokes. I don't know whether it was trying to vibrate the leaf away or merely checking for newly-caught insects, or something else entirely; mostly it just seemed frustrated with the failure of its efforts. Then it returned to the leaf. It carried on its dance, cutting away the leaf and carefully dropping it down, only to lose control and have it fall into a lower section of the web. This went on for a few more minutes, with the spider seeming more and more agitated -- and leaving, periodically, to go twang its spokes from the centre -- until it eventually gave it up, and went to sulk behind the leaves around one of its anchor threads. The leaf was still in the web, and in trying to remove it the spider had made a hole roughly eight times the size of the leaf itself. (If at first you don't succeed...)

As I turned to walk away, I noticed another spider in a similar predicament. This was a much bigger spider, a different species, with a much bigger leaf in its much bigger web, though similarly placed. I watched it scuttle down to the leaf and cut it away, quickly and skillfully. It had a minor moment of panic when the leaf fell into one of the anchor strands below the web (it was a holly leaf and so quite heavy) but it managed to catch it and remove it from the anchor strands without damaging them, and so returned contentedly to the centre. The leaf had left a small hole, but for now the spider left it as it was.
mhuzzell: (Monty Python)
I am female. This means that for as long as I can remember, people have inquired about my intention to procreate. I recall being asked at the age of about four how many children I intended to have, and being encouraged to seriously contemplate the question. And I did, too, as did my sister.

My brother did not. It didn't matter. I mean, obviously if a male child discussed the issue, it was seriously discussed with him (my cousin Alex used to say he wanted 12 kids), but the matter never seemed to be pressed on them if they didn't bring it up.

As I got older, the messages started to change, for a while. The topic of procreation became more about how it worked and how to prevent it, and for a while it seemed that we females were on somewhat equal footing with the males; our bodies were different, but it was impressed upon us that we had equal responsibility for preventing unplanned pregnancy (a stance that older feminists inform me is a recent one).

... But a few years later, as the conversation turns towards the question of having kids rather than preventing them, all the weight is shifted back onto the women. Women are encouraged, at every stage of their fertile years, to think about their potential to have children, and the consequences thereof. In particular, we are asked to consider how to "balance" this with our desire for a "career". Countless articles are written about it, ranging from go-getter encouraging to pessimistic and downright demeaning. And, of course, we talk about it with each other.

A (nominally feminist) message board I frequent, which is about 98% female, and mostly teens and 20-somethings, discusses the issue with some regularity. It's not like we talk about nothing else (like, to another woman, about something other than a man), but childbearing comes up a lot. A recent thread included the serious suggestion -- discussed at some length! -- that women should start thinking seriously about this around age 16 or 18, when they are deciding on what life-paths to take, career-wise, because some professions are much more compatible with child-rearing. Within the safe space of our discussions, this is a valid and potentially helpful point to make. But a part of me still wants to shout "COME ON, MY SISTREN! Do whatever you want with your uterus! Have your kids then let's fight like hell to make sure you have the opportunity to continue your career if you want to! To make sure that your partner is equally able (and feels equally obliged) to bear half the burden of caring for them! To achieve a gender-equal society!"

Because, honestly, while a small part of it all makes sense, biologically speaking -- women are the only ones who are physically obliged to take at least some time off work to accommodate the actual birth of the child -- there's no reason why all of the intellectual labour of pondering these questions should be done by the ones who incubate the foetuses. When was the last time you heard a group of young men discussing the relative merits of different career choices based on their potential to accommodate any hypothetical future children? Where are all the op-eds telling young men how to plan their lives around their reproductive capacities? A google search for 'men career children' first asks if I meant 'women career children' (and gives the top two results for that), then shows a whole bunch of pages about how the career-vs.-children issue is an issue for women and not for men. Big news there. I mean, I know writing this isn't going to tell anyone anything new, either; but I'm not informing, I'm just ranting.

By way of further research, I asked a male housemate if anyone had ever asked him to consider the potential effect of children on his career. It was a small sample size, I know, but the research was purely rhetorical; of course no one had. To be fair, he said, 'career' itself was not much of a consideration for him, either -- which is about the answer you'd expect from an anarchist. However, it gets to what I think is the real root of the problem: that we, not as women but as people, at least in the time and place these words inhabit, are encouraged to think of "careers" as the be-all end-all of identity. Not just what we do but who we are. If "careers" were not hierarchical, and if "advancement" didn't matter so much, then it wouldn't matter so much if someone -- male or female -- decided to take one or three or fifteen years off to raise their families, and return to them later. Obviously in something like research there'd be some catch-up work to do, but in most cases it would simply mean that you ended your 'working life' with a few years' less experience than your peers. Is that such a bad thing?

Unfortunately, I think that kind of paradigm shift is going to be a lot harder to achieve than simple in-system (but still necessary!) steps like paid paternity leave.

Rambles

Oct. 6th, 2009 02:09 pm
mhuzzell: (Default)
I'm in London -- or rather, Loughton -- visiting Harry at East 15. He's in classes from 10-4, and for what feels like the first time in my life, I have literally nothing I need to be doing. (Apart from looking at jobs websites, of course, but I check those at least every other day anyway, and new vacancies are not going to disappear within 24 hours of being posted.) But no reading, no coursework, not even any activisty things, since I'm still new enough on the Edinburgh scene that I wasn't able to take on any of the recent tasks that needed doing, since they all required some local logistical knowledge I don't yet have.

Sadly, freeing though I suppose it is, I'm just a bit bored. Not that I haven't been feeling the same listlessness up in Edinburgh -- that's primarily why I haven't been posting much -- but at least up there there are always minor life details that need attending to, so I am seldom so completely at a loss. Here, I would walk in the forest (beautiful beautiful Epping Forest, old lovely REAL deciduous forest! Trees like I've missed with the whole of my being) but it's been too rainy. It was sunny on Sunday, and Harry and I took a little walk through the edge nearest his house, but we had to cut it short to head into London to catch a play.

I've a book I could read, too, but that feels lonely, and I crave at least imagined interaction. Hence my coming to the East 15 computer lab to suckle onto the warm breast of the internet. Such was my intention, anyway. In reality, as I write this, I'm sitting in Harry's room on his internetless laptop; I'll USB the file and upload it when I go, but for now I'm waiting for the rain to die down. For most of the morning, the sky had been clear-misting in that funny sort of way where it's not really raining but everything gets wet (there's a Scottish word for that -- of course there is -- but I've forgotten it), but about five minutes before I meant to set out, it started really pouring. I suppose it's a good thing, since otherwise I'd have been caught in it, but it still places me here and dry rather than wet and online (to be honest, I'm not sure which one I'd prefer).

The other option, of course, is to be writing something. I'm writing this, of course, but I mean writing creatively. Or at least thoughtfully, in some structured way and for more than a few paragraphs at a time. Lately the only writing I've done has been on message boards, and since that's usually spontaneous and discursive, it tends to be less structured and less well thought-out, and thus has only served to make me hyper-aware of all the flaws in my style, without necessarily highlighting any way by which I might improve it. That is, I can see what I'm doing wrong, or over-doing (and I can see it here!) but short of picking throuh every single sentence, I'm not sure how to improve it. I use far too many linking words; while I believe in beginning sentences with conjunctions where appropriate, I do it all the freaking time. I think I've been using it as a crutch, and I'm tiring of it. I also include far too many parenthetical asides, right there in the sentences rather than tidied away into their own sentences -- and I write, with or without these asides, such long and unweildy sentences. Seventeenth-century sentences, or maybe Eighteenth, sprawling out along the page, so over-gorged with clauses they can barely stand on their own twelve feet.

What, though, can I do to stop myself? (And you see that 'though' is another of those not-strictly-necessary linking words, stitching up my prose with a complex overlock, when all it really needs is a little tacking to hold it together. And there again is that unnecessary 'and', which is two faults in one; and there again, and here. And this whole three-sentence point is itself parenthetical.) Do you notice it, Dear Readers*? Or have you suddenly been made hyper-aware of my flawed prose, like I am? Are you now looking over this whole passage thinking 'oh yeah, I see what she meant there, oh and there she did it again'? Or am I just whinging into an overly self-critical void, and making myself boring in the process?

The sun's come out. Maybe I'll go take a walk in the forest after all.


* A pretentious (if ancient) convention in itself, though in this case a self-conscious one. I like it. It helps me to simultaneously imagine that vast numbers of unknown people are reading this (thus making it worthwhile) and, by its very over-the-top pretentiousness, that my entire audience is actually imaginary, despite all evidence to the contrary, thus making the whole exercise of writing this journal unintimidating enough for me to actually do it candidly.
mhuzzell: (Crabby)
1)
On the last warm day I spent in St Andrews, Debbie and I went swimming in the sea at West Sands. It was a warm day, but the water was cold cold cold. Still fun, though. And even though West Sands is relatively bare, I found a little bit of floating seaweed, and on it was a little baby crab!

It was probably the most adorable thing ever. It was tiny and round, like a ball bearing with legs (and about the size of one, too). It was also completely transparent, except for a few little dark specks of organs inside it, and huge, opalescent turquoise eyes. It crawled around on my hand for a while, but as I brought my big myopic face close to get a better look, it started waving its tiny transparent claws at me in the aggressive manner of an adult crab (see photo).

2)
As I was walking home last night, I saw a little grey tabby cat trotting quickly in the other direction, coming towards me. It slowed as it neared, and then came right up to me. I bent down to stroke it, and since it was so affectionate stayed there for several minutes, petting it. Then as I tried to walk away, it kept butting in front of my legs. I would pet it again, and step around it, and walk on, and it would repeat its actions. Once it started off into the walkway of a house; I think that must've been where it lives, and it was under the impression that I would let it inside.

It kept following me, though, for a few hundred metres down the street. As we crossed a side street it paused for a long time in the middle of the road, looking up as if confused. I watched it there, confused myself and a little concerned for the safety of a cat so absentminded it would stop in the middle of the road. Eventually it crossed over, and I knelt to stroke it again. It batted at my hand in that non-clawing, reprimanding way that cats do, then flounced away huffily, back the way we'd come.

3)
I really hope I got a little bit of cat smell on me, though, because our flat is overrun with mice. They are everywhere, and really bold! They just wander out, even when we are sitting around, not even cautious enough to wait until we've gone to bed. It's pretty disgusting. Rumour has it that one new flatmate is bringing some cats with her when she comes, and I really hope it's true.
mhuzzell: (Monty Python)
I am trying to align my ducks. Life, roof, relationship, food, friends, visa, job, life. Not necessarily in that order.

It's 2:36 am and I can't sleep again. I can never sleep, except in the mornings. It's frustrating, because Harry is as diurnal as a fucking songbird, while I am more like a moth with a computer, hypnotized by the glowing screen, and so between sleep and work I hardly get to see him. And we are moving away to different cities soon. Phooh.

I've been working all the shows this week at the Byre, which is actually all the same show, and has been the same show all month. It's been running through my head and invading my thoughts. This post contains numerous references.

I have escaped, though, a little. I am moving to Edinburgh in a couple weeks, and I've been back and forth a few times, for the Fringe. I always mean to talk about the stuff I see, but mostly the description in my head is an incoherent babble that doesn't seem worth committing to writing. Instead, here's a bare list of my recommendations, in the order in which I saw them (no guarantee they're still on, but hey): The Grind Show, Zeitgeist, The Diary of a Mad Man, The Rap Guide to Evolution, The Rebel Cell.

I am officially a hipster now, though, apparently, because some trendy-looking guy asked to photograph my bag with all the badges. But I'm also officially a nerd, 'cause later on at the Amanda Palmer concert, her supporting band sang a song which said [something along the lines of] "This is the last great statement ever made by rock-and-roll" and all I could think of was Francis Fukuyama.

Hell, I'll own 'nerd'. I finally saw 'Twilight', only because it was overdubbed by the guys who do Mystery Science Theater 3000. Hi-larious. Almost as good as this, which having actually seen the film now allows me to appreciate:

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