Are You Confused About My Motivation?

I was afraid I would have to forgo winter in Louisiana. Two nights ago it froze and today has been a full day of rain. When it's night the sky turns purple as it does in Oregon when it snows.

New Orleans is a small city. You see people regularly on accident and part of that is that this is a wandering city. Where New York puts emphasis of getting and being at your location, this city promotes walking. Wandering is made easier if you love southern porches, swampy houses and Spanish moss.

It's an insular city. The outside world isn't as important as the Big Easy (just listen to any local musician and count the repetitions of "New Orleans"). They perpetuate their own image and news amongst themselves. We'll see if I buy in at any time. We'll also see if I can summarize the kind of person that moves down here. Lamentably, tall-bikers are among the stock.

I'm closing on an apartment, and interviewing for tutor positions at a charter school. Still not enough, but Levinas would say that marks me as a successful man. What really speaks to that effect is my victory as hot dog eating champion on Saturday. While Levinas says nothing about quality, I think hot dogs lodged in my duodenum is an exceptional omen.

Much like Ryan Beckwith, prince of the tramps, I take some time to ponder the serious unanswerable aspects of life. I wrote down something about the Age of Ambivalence that I saw at the London Science Museum. This time distinction seems to be unique to the UK, but is the general descriptor of the 1960s to 2000. Marked by an anxiety and ambivalence toward our increasing dependence on technology.

This all lead to Zygmunt Bauman. And though it pains me to quote Wikipedia, I have not read the book yet. And which is worse, quoting or plagiarizing Wikipedia?

"Liquid modernity is Bauman's term for the present condition of the world as contrasted with the "solid" modernity that preceded it. According to Bauman, the passage from "solid" to "liquid" modernity has created a new and unprecedented setting for individual life pursuits, confronting individuals with a series of challenges never before encountered. Social forms and institutions no longer have enough time to solidify and cannot serve as frames of reference for human actions and long-term life plans, so individuals have to find other ways to organise their lives. Individuals have to splice together an unending series of short-term projects and episodes that don't add up to the kind of sequence to which concepts like "career" and "progress" could be meaningfully applied. Such fragmented lives require individuals to be flexible and adaptable — to be constantly ready and willing to change tactics at short notice, to abandon commitments and loyalties without regret and to pursue opportunities according to their current availability. In liquid modernity the individual must act, plan actions and calculate the likely gains and losses of acting (or failing to act) under conditions of endemic uncertainty."

What I have read are transcripts of lectures by Bauman. He is not pessimistic about the future of our liquid modernity. I don't think it justifies being uncommitted, but I'll have to read it to find out. Perhaps unreliable framework will have a positive effect on how we cross-breed disciplines and jobs. Or maybe it'll just mean honest workers like my Mom will have to work shifts of unreliable workers.

Before I start Bauman I have to finish Jane Austen. I find my only hope is that I get stabbed while it is tucked in my belt so that I can say that she saved my life and nothing more. I read in bars and the streetcar, effectively increasing my Kinsey score and sex appeal. It ultimately is a waste of time when Powerman 5000 already summarized the conflict of sisters, class and romantic sensibility in their seminal piece "When Worlds Collide." The song interweaves the composure and counsel of Elinor Dashwood and the defiant demands and lamentations of Marianne. The third and youngest daughter, Margaret, is left out of the discourse as Jane Austen makes a point that Margaret is a trivial point in plot and is so plain that she'll amount to nothing. The imagery of travel refers to the ill-fated excursion the Dashwoods take to London town and the allusion to being 'hand chosen' before worlds collide is a clear nod at Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon - the final repetition of the chorus speaks not to the disparity of temperament between the sisters but of the eventual love Marianne feels toward her unlikely suitor. Resonating with the schismatic pairs of the Middletons and Steeles. Mr. Spider One is a clear fan of the classics.

Let it be known though that I like Emma and Pride and Prejudice. My enjoyment is a function of the percentage of snark - or Colin Firth, what have you.

If ever you had a worry about my health and sanity, take comfort in these plans: A morning exploring the abandoned Six-Flags, play Risk in the afternoon, and finish it off with a caper of watching Babies while eating homemade Elvis Presley Sandwiches (with bacon). Don't worry, real dinners consist of me cooking food. Garam masala with sweet potatoes, parsnip chips, bruschetta, or an improvised paella. The surprising thing is, they're delicious and cheap (providing you combine the ambition of Alton Brown with the structure of Budget Bytes, and the improvisation of Ratatouille).

If that didn't rouse confidence take pride in this:
"We should have tea time more often - without Kent."
"I caught it. It came out out of my mouth but I caught it."

What kind of man am I?

Intuition Correct

Everything's been somber on this blog. I don't want to jinx anything. Save to say that I am having a good time. Everyone down here is involved in education and I'm negotiating assistant and tutor positions at schools.So much help. I'm going to ride my bike. OH YEAH.

And I met the crypt keeper, her name is Page.

One word can sum up 'Winters Bone'; charming. Absolutely charming. Let's drop what we're doing and move to the Ozarks and cook meth with two stars from Deadwood.

Intuition and Arbitrary Choices (Erotic Dancing followed by Self-Help)

More than a few people have asked why I'm moving to New Orleans. There are a lot of arbitrary reasons. There is a logical progression to my intuition.

A few days ago I was talking with Hannah. She was a little overwhelmed by how arbitrary life seems to her. She can think of reasons why she moved to LA, but none of them are really sufficient answers to her. We both don't know how Bard got on our application lists, how it stayed on, and for me I don't really have a reason why I signed off to go there. She went because it was the best school, I went because I felt good standing there. I had to tell Hannah that she has a clearly defined character (what we can say informs our conscious self through intuition) that narrows down her options. After all, it isn't equally likely that she could have ended up in Skokie or Chattanooga (Chattanooga is hell).

I don't like the idea that everything we do is simply an amalgamation of experience that informs what we like. Conversely I dislike the idea that we're fated for a singular direction. I reconcile the two my trusting in my intuition. Intuition can be informed, and in some ways quantified, but ultimately you take it on faith that it is truth.

My intuition hasn't changed over my whole life. I everything I've wanted since I was a kid is still true today. I used to have so little faith that I could ever choose one interest to pursue and now I've found an awesome way to merge all the disparate elements. Maybe you don't think teaching science to high schoolers seems that thrilling or complicated, but trust me when I say I have more foresight and schemes than you think.

My intuition doesn't necessarily falter. I've over thought some great things to death. Intuition can only lead you to the right things, it's up to you to put the work into keeping them.
 
I care most about rare things (Place<Job<Relationships). I love a great deal of places. A number of those places have my job of choice. Even fewer have the people I want to live with. Yeah, I'll make friends, but we don't always have the benefit of discovery in that order. Last year I had the relationship and an inkling of the job and still an unfounded fear that there's only once place for it all.  

I'm sitting at home. Not too bad, not too great. I've got my Mom around and a fully stocked kitchen. I don't have a relationship. I don't have a career. As much as I'd love to leap directly to graduate school and a relationship, I can't. My choice is to go where I intuitively felt good. I'm moving to a place my father seems to think will transform me into a fat cancer patient (with poor health care to boot).

I trust that there is a truth to how I feel, and I bolster that with a large amount of arbitrary reasons. I doubt that I'll be climbing a ladder from now on. What I do know is that I will always prioritize the rarest things first. It's definite that I'll leave New Orleans behind for something more important. I won't miss a place as much as I miss a career. And I will always miss people most of all.

I'm fine with that.

I probably could have explained all that with a few selections from the internet. I have to keep reminding myself that this is essentially a mass e-mail lest I start to puke from proselytizing.

My Business Plan

Presenting innovative alternatives to the well-worn trope of the stripper Policeman.We are committed to deep character work.

First Act: Dusty the Janitor.
It's your bachelorette party and your 'friends' have sent you to a secluded backroom to receive a private session. You're nervous, after all you never wanted a bachelorette party - you were talked into it. You're not sure how you feel about strippers in general. You're so flush as you stand up to leave when the door opens. In rolls the janitors cart and tired Dusty. You scream, he yalps in a seemingly migraine-laden state. You both catch yourselves and he grabs his chest, his cheeks flushing. You're terribly embarrassed - you must be in the wrong room, you apologize. You look Dusty over as he assures you he made the mistake. He is the exemplar of how good looking fugly can be. Fear sets in. Dusty is talking - mumbling - a bit too long. You realize you're in a skimpy dress that Carol made you wear (that bitch). The adrenaline going through your system makes you nervous and aroused. This man could be anyone and he has you cornered in a room built to muffle the slapping of indecent flesh. You make for the door - he sidles up to the frame, head bowed. "Sorry for putting you in this position." he says.
"You didn't put me in any awkward position"
"I'm about to."
Dusty deftly scoots you with his pelvis like a bulldozer, simultaneously closing the door. The pilot light in his eyes ignite as you scuttle back. Your scattered steps are perfectly in time with the techno remix of the Good Will Hunting soundtrack. The rhythm. The rhythm is all you can feel as Dustys powerful frame closes in. Your body goes stiff with shock and the rippling bliss of Dustys weathered abs pin you down.

Any resemblance to His Excellency Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is a result of the artists interpretation and purely coincidental. At this time we will not provide a Presidential role-playing service.

You experience the most frightening arousal. And the safest: all our dancers pass rigorous background checks, take a weekly abuse workshop, and are certified in first aid and couples/self-esteem counseling.

For a private party Dusty wouldn't do. A stranger is sexy to a certain extent, but not when they're trespassing and nonchalantly cleaning your home before taking off all his clothes.

Stripper Delivery: Marcus the Municipal Waste Worker
You open your door to a scruffy man seemingly going through his daily routine. His joyless, functional expression contrasts to the good time stirring in the living room. You become alarmed as Marcus informs you that the neighbors have been complaining of a stink, he's going to each home on the block in inspect the septic tanks. You haven't noticed a smell, you curtly inform him as his story becomes suspect. Marcus retorts with a short, nauseating anecdote about becoming accustomed to smells. You think it's best he come back another time, yet the words catch in your dessicated mouth as Marcus makes powerful, insinuating eye contact.
"The smell isn't coming from a faulty pipe, but a dirty girl. And with my large equipment and specialized training I can only do one thing for you; Pump. Pump, pump pump, pump." With each iteration of 'pump' Marcus' crotch smacks against your personal space. Music ejaculates from his clipboard. Marcus does a sumptuous spin move as the music pulsates and beer flows out of his sewage truck.

For an additional fee and a small number of liability forms we can arrange for actual police officers to interrupt the performance at its climax. The officers will arrest the 'known criminal' and take statements to provide a truly unique and lasting memory as your party guests must describe the dance in vivid, searing detail. Leaving the recipient with a heretofore unknown erotic sensation - having been lured into a sense of security by a total babe of a stranger. A stranger capable of anything; assault, or stealing your heart and/or kidneys.

Just a Boy Again

I am in an awful mood. I have been for a while. That doesn't mean I can't do some worthwhile things throughout. Like go to two continents, watch Forrest Gump and the Terminal back to back (a more disgraceful awe), write some great essays, draw, and do a shitload of stress baking. The croissant dough is rising for tomorrows Cinnamon Crispies and today I made the most amazing cranberry scones that you have to taste. Baking is a nice distraction and I couldn't help but think of Demolition Man.

There are many ways to portray a crappy disposition. I have been keeping most things to myself, not being prone to dithering. But! I am not defeated and I want the internet to know that I am very proud of myself. Last year I was taught a great deal, and I was the person I wanted to be. I was committed (though I could have stood to be less committed to my job every once and a while). Most importantly I believed (and still do) that I can make it all work.

Okay, maybe I won't want to be working a low-end job, but I won't be ashamed to be taking it if it means I can ride a bike home, carve woodblocks from scavenged wood, play rugby, wash my chemical burns in my own shower, hide pigeons in a friends bathroom. If it means that I can have what makes me happy. I'll say roughly the same next year hopefully without making the same follies (unlike some assholes I know of).

I acknowledge that by continuing this blog I break my unwritten code that I put nothing personal on the internet anymore. I also realize all too late that I am now on Google image search - somewhere. I'm sort of happy about that last point. I now feed what has fed me. I am the Human Monopede. I really hope that my Middle School picture will eventually be a result for 'Human Monopede.'

I fly again next weekend. We'll try to make this one last, especially as I was forced into a vow of only one snap decision this year, but I don't ever expect this to be final. This move has been more planned and thanks to a generous father I'm not required to work Kmart to save up. There will be a return on this investment even if it's just avoid what I have been told is an unruly amount of brain cancer.

While walking town I saw for the first time that one small 'mall' hosts the best cross-section of the Hood River population:

I think we're following a theme.

This weekend is a Mother-Son celebration, which might end with a gunshot wound if we don't play it safe. More baking, more running, and more preparations to go back to school. The future goal of school is my wife. And who doesn't aspire to be Ice T? Okay, it was the best couple picture I could think of.

You Better Listen To Your Friend Billy Zane

Finishing the first day of the new year alone in Oregon watching Titanic on the Oxygen network. And with contacts I feel disabled not being capable of taking off my glasses slowly, erotically, inquisitively.

I think we've all been the subject of an erotic drawing. Happy New Year, honestly.