Lately

I've been pulled away from blogging due to a couple of self- imposed deadlines concerning vague academic ambitions that I'd rather not get into in detail just yet. Let the record show that personal statements are loathesome exercises in self- doubt. It's not that I have a problem with self- promotion, but I hate having to represent myself to an audience I know nothing about- save the fact that they are a shadowy ring of academics perhaps installed in a bunker atop the Alps. It's a daunting task. What do the high priests of intellectual taste want to know? Probably they'd like to know if I'd be any fun at a faculty party, but the zombie dialect of academic writing bars me from mentioning the time I was bitten on the knee under a bar table by my very inebriated and otherwise gay advisor.

The best I can do is mention this site, so that maybe someone will click on over on break from reviewing applications.

The nature of the work I want to do necessitates that I talk about my disability. Again, it helps to know your audience. Have they been educated on the rights of people with disabilities? Do I have some 'splainin' to do ? Or will revealing too much offend some one's need to perceive herself as politically correct and "supportive of diversity?"

Personal statements are a crazy maker.

I'll follow up on this thread soon.

Notes on How to Draw a Pile of Rocks

When drawing a pile of rocks it is wise to start
at bottom, sisyphean this three flat walk up once day dreaming of all God's houses-

to believe would have been so much easier,
coughed up at Normandy, spitting ember sand pelt
hairline fissures issue soothsayer.

Visions would be embracing waves
and this would not be happening.
For it is necessary to build one's house on the rock

or so it was written before anyone bothered to write
things down, recollecting cataclysm best
thrown back on the limey ransomed shores.

Thought the Romans recycled their soldiers
in aftermath of Pomepie ticker- tape parade
reckoned all art was dead carbon, was okay with it.

Statues scrapped from quarries runners turned to ash
ancients forever spinning mannah, you could blame alchemy.
Mummy was a god was saint and monster

inlaid with ossuary cobbles.

Blog Hlumblug

I attended the BlogHer Conference at Navy Pier last Saturday where I was subjected to unbridled tourism (It's a mall! And an amusement park! On a pier!)

I'm tempted to call Navy Pier Chicago's French Quarter, but that would be an insult to the French Quarter. Forgot how long the Pier is, and of course the conference rooms are in the very back, so this blogger was truly living up to her avatar by the time I picked up my mail bag full of green- tea scented promotional items and crept in towards the back of the Business of You session. The food was great, and the atmosphere decidedly uncritical. One of the panelists was hesitant to call herself a writer, prefering blogger, as it denotes what? Someone who is willing to be exploited and underpaid because they're "uncomfortable" with the term writer! Or maybe the term blogger now refers to one who schills products on the Internet under the guise of sisterly chitchat.

Perhaps the scariest moment occured when a woman in the audience identified herself as an HR Director at a biotechnical firm. I KID YOU NOT, she wanted to know how she could contract bloggers to do ad copy work on the cheap without having to pay them benefits!!!!! That was her question, in a room full of bloggers who sat there in silence, perhaps stunned, perhaps drugged on Curves New! trail mix waifers.

Has bloging devolved in to nothing better than a Tupperware Party? Many of the BlogHer attendees identified themselves as full-time moms. For these women, and others, blogging affords an extra source of income with all the benefits of a built- in community.

Perhaps I should just mist my pillow with corporate- sponsored green tea opiates and dream of android sheep.

P.S. Elizabeth Edwards was there campaigning. She made this lady cry.

And lest I sound too gloomy, something that gave me hope.

Writing Hard

Came across a great collection of thoughts on writing the other day on punkplanet.com and wanted to add to the mix of comments by bashing my own sloth-like writing ways. Emailing a friend I said

The process of writing is like untangling a string of Christmas tree lights. Thoughts come to me in brightly tangled bunches that must be unraveled and arranged into intelligible sentences.

A bad day at work can tighten the kinks, though I do my best to work through it. Some things are more important than angst.

I hate living in a segregated workforce where all anyone ever wants to talk about is America's Top Model and celebrity couples whose combined names would make a good title for a Godzilla flick.

And there I am again, staring at a mound of forest green knots. My brain's like the storage closets at Martha Stewart Living- an overly-sensitive writer just happens to live here.

I had a second job interview on Monday with a local service provider for developmentally disabled adults with vision impairments (shhh, don't tell my boss). It's usually refreshing to be interviewed by another blind person. I like not having to worry so much about making eye contact and playing the part of the hyper- intent/ engaging job applicant as my natural expression is sort of deadpan and aloof. It's not the professional drag I mind so much as maintaining that cheerful exuberance bordering on megolamania that reportedly makes people want to invite you into their offices and give you money.

There's generally less explaining to do with a disabled interviewer since nine times out of ten they will be familiar with the technology I use to do my work. No one would consider the task of explaining how screenreaders work the stuff of airy banter. I get so burned out on "educating" people about my disability that its kind of a thrill to get a respite from this tedious recitation.

I ran into an interesting conundrum concerning the interviewer's guide dog, however, who happened to be off- harness. Imagine trying to conduct an interview with a lumberingly affectionate boxer drooling in your lap. That sentence begs at least one dirty joke I'm sure, but stay with me. The interview was punctuated by the dog repeatedly nudging a slobbery toy into my clenched fist. Mentioning it to the interviewer didn't do much good as he just encouraged me to ignore him.

I thought that was kind of rude- seeing as how his dog was affecting my performance during the interview. Following the interview the dog resisted being put on harness, going limp as a sockmonkey on the office floor. "I think I hurt his feelings," I said.

Whatever, I have a third interview next week. Looks like I passed the Saliva Desensitization Test. Wish me luck.