melle-belle's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- What do I do with that? I'm fairly happy, but I'm empty. And it turns out that being happy isn't much of an accomplishment or much of a raison d'etre. As I was quitting my job, I was told just how good at it I was. I think they were expecting surprise on my part. But I know I was good at it, because, sadly, compared to what passes as average I am pretty damn smart, and most of the people I deal with are pretty damn incompetent. Revision: Most of the people I dealt with are pretty damn incompetent. And the incompetents pretty much chased me away. I just can't face it any longer. I can't fix other people's mistakes just to keep the boat afloat for one more day. Furthermore, if I am so good at something that I hate so much that I cry on the way to work, presumably I could be much better at something else. What do I do with the fact that certain series of words, with certain tricks of punctuation or typography derail me? I don't think they are derailing the whole world, or the world would be a very different place. It's like certain people have things to say that strike some secret chord inside of me and I can't be the same afterwords. What are these magic words? I've given up the pretense that I have any magic words of my own. So, what good does it do me, or the world, that I am such a good receptor for the mad ramblings of others? I'm tiring of the whole charade that is the study of Literature at any higher level. I'm not sure what Linguistics is, but I don't think it's what I'm talking about. (Is there a Phd program in word choice and iambic pentameter? What is the study of why someone chooses a particular word, with a particular rhythm, with particular stressed and unstressed syllables? What is the study of the history of that word and it's psychological associations? What is the study of how the user's brain lights up and how their synapses leap at the utterance of some magical string of language? One not peopled with the largest douche bags to walk the face of the earth, please.) It turns out that I enjoy research. More than the writing of papers, really. I research until the last possible instant and then I dread taking a nice outline and adding the flesh. Oh, how tiresome. Can't I just transmit the associations I've already made brain-to-brain? I don't think I'm a bad writer, but I don't think I'm a fantastic writer either, particularly when I have to write about something that ultimately bores me. Maybe the problem is still wanting to be fantastic at something. Maybe it's too much to ask. 12:20 p.m. - 2011-06-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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