brullyant

A fab idea, slightly bastardized from the suggestion of a quasi-colleague, who came wandering into my office not long ago to share the tail-end of a bottle of champagne.  I do wish I knew her name...  Anyway, we were discussing a novel, and she enquired about my work before noticing the NYTimes displayed on the monitor, and she laughed.  She suggested the category of "productive non-work," i.e. developmentally useful readings not directly connected to one's work (including intriguing novels).  And it strikes me - my office is a place of binaries: I work, or I fail to work; I deal with university things, or utterly reject and avoid them.  So, I'm going to try and work the middle ground here, and give myself permission, nay, insist that if I'm not working, that I pursue productive non-work rather than exclusively non-productive non-work.  Hah.  Revelate!  Deviate!  Celebrate.  Tomorrow and tomorrow, etc.  The petty pace ain't over yet.

doldrums

Frozen, apparently, on writing this article.  Facing the chasm that must be crossed, by yielding to the inevitable.  It's not that I need to be miserable to produce my best work - I'm over that particular fallacy.  Merely that in working there is suffering.  I love what I do, but in order to do it, most times, I must shut down so many other parts of myself.  On Bloomsday, no less, when the call of the Guinness is strong(er).  Played hooky yesterday, after dropping off blood-relatives at the airport at a god-awful early hour.  "Too tired to work," I thought, said, enacted.  But tomorrow ("tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow / creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time."), I said, tomorrow I shall work.  Well, I'm here, at work, so the muse knows where to find me, as it were, but she's AWOL, and I'm tired (not authentically, but tired at the idea of the tiredness that shall be required to do this.)  Whinge. Bitch. Moan.  Both of my readers may well recognise this tone....

bigger than you know

My music taste is broader than yours.  Remember that, everyone who doesn't read this.  If you do read this, it doesn't apply to you.  But don't you dare condescend to me, accept grudging compliments, and then be surprised when the line is crossed and I strike out at the most obvious fault line.  I may not know the indie details you know, but I got the job, bitch, and I listen to a broader range of shit than you do.  Much of which is worth listening to.