I like to think that in ten years time I will look back at this rocky patch with some sense of fondness. Somehow, my perspective will change and I will see this as a really productive period in my career as a mercenary procrastinator. A small stack of business cards might help to make the operation look more professional.
But it seems more likely that I will believe that my time was well spent on an extended vacation. It is as if I am spending this time on a guided tour of my own nervous breakdown.
Either way, I definitely know what it means to play imaginary computer games with your furniture.
Procrastination by John Kelly
Showing posts with label the irrational displacement of fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the irrational displacement of fear. Show all posts
31 July 2008
28 July 2008
Criticizing the Critics
One of my college professors just caught up with me and learned that much of my year had been spent schlepping around lead buckets of misery stew around like a morose milk maid. He was sorry to hear I had been feeling so bad and wondered if my problems were rooted in too much worry and stress.
Too much worry and stress? I guess that could be part of it, I said in response. Certainly worry, stress, guilt, anger, fear, over-analysis, and this nasty little repression habit are some ingredients that accompany this black mood. It could also be cyclic; every four years I'm fraught with this most inky and bilious of humors.
What I did not say but certainly thought about considerably after our email exchange was the fact that I had probably been putting up with it for longer than I was willing to admit. Depression is a disease that does not allow for pinpoint accuracy in terms of cause and effect. In my many go arounds with depression, there has never been a defining moment of "Well shit. Now I am officially depressed. Ho-fucking-hum." The threshold is gossamer, and one can easily teeter on the brink indefinitely.
I was still pondering my professor's question of the origins of my disease and the subsequent spillage of my cart full of nuts when I read that Randy Pausch, the professor of The Last Lecture fame, had died. I haven't read the book, but I did flip through it while I was stranded at the Salt Lake City Airport. It appealed to me because of my own fond memories of the Last Lecture series at college in which professors told colorful stories of being born in an elevator, or read several of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales aloud in Middle English.
Even though I left Pausch's book on the shelf that day, it kept crossing my path. Eventually I decided that I would purchase La Ultima Leccion, the book's Spanish translation, when I was feeling flush. This way I could read the book that kept following me around and practicar español. Believe me, my español needs a good deal of practicar.
When I read of Pausch's death, I watched the video of the original lecture, Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams as recorded at Carnegie Mellon. Within the first few minutes of the hour plus speech, I got a heavy dose of "your reality makes my reality make more sense," and it was inspired by an anecdote about football of all things. I have zero tolerance when it comes to football.
In his lecture, Pausch told a story of a football practice with his childhood football coach. He's been given a hard time all practice long, and another coach points out the importance of this sort of criticism. He says:
When I was temping, I knew I was doing a bad job. The work was menial and I never had enough to do. When I bothered to show initiative, I was castigated. I was unchallenged, under-utilized and bored. I listened for my critics, but I couldn't hear them clearly. This was a very bad place to be.
On a personal level, I was really upset by this workplace situation. I was angry in a way that made me feel as if my blood were thick with little toxic beads of quicksilver. I didn't know how to deal with being this angry. So I made work into a sort of a farce. I misappropriated the privilege of free time. I let the quality of my work slip to embarrassing levels. And to my astonisment, my flagrant abuse of the system is what caused my co-workers to be nice to me. People would show up at my cublicle to hear me gripe about the system. When I listened for a critic, I heard laughter. This was a very bad place to be.
When I finally left my last temp job to take a dramaturgy post, I thought I would be able to heave a huge sigh of relief. Afterall, doing something I enjoy as much as dramaturgy should bring me great pleasure. I would do it in my sleep. I would do it for no pay (even though all dramaturgs should make a living wage). I would do it while jumping up and down on the bed with bells around my ankles. Right?
Wrong. The experience made me feel even more miserable, and I considered my work to be subpar. I listened, but I didn't hear any critics. I wasn't even sure I knew who my critics were anymore.
Healthier people might say that their work was acceptable if they do not hear criticism. Healthier people would not need this sort of approval cum thorn in side. But by this time, I knew I was not healthy. I also knew that my way of thinking would not make sense whatsoever to any sort of reasonably healthy person.
This time when I listened for the critics, they came in droves. And the critic said, "I am worthless. I have failed. I don't matter. I am disgusting. There is no one that loves me. I have fucked up. I don't deserve to be alive." And I said it until I believed myself.
This disease took something I love to do, something I know I am good at doing, and it turned it into a source of misery. It made me spend more days that I can count on the floor of my apartment willing myself to die; unable to move even to use the toilet. Months later, even with medication and psychotherapy, I am incapacitated to the point where I am exhausted by an act as simple as brushing my teeth. Each and every effort is feels like swimming through cement.
So, with all due respect to the late Professor Pausch, I would like to say that he is only partially correct. Sometimes your critics are the ones who tell you they still love you and care. And, from time to time, your critics will need a little criticism. But there are some critics who need to be told to go fuck themselves. Gently. With a chainsaw.
Too much worry and stress? I guess that could be part of it, I said in response. Certainly worry, stress, guilt, anger, fear, over-analysis, and this nasty little repression habit are some ingredients that accompany this black mood. It could also be cyclic; every four years I'm fraught with this most inky and bilious of humors.
What I did not say but certainly thought about considerably after our email exchange was the fact that I had probably been putting up with it for longer than I was willing to admit. Depression is a disease that does not allow for pinpoint accuracy in terms of cause and effect. In my many go arounds with depression, there has never been a defining moment of "Well shit. Now I am officially depressed. Ho-fucking-hum." The threshold is gossamer, and one can easily teeter on the brink indefinitely.
I was still pondering my professor's question of the origins of my disease and the subsequent spillage of my cart full of nuts when I read that Randy Pausch, the professor of The Last Lecture fame, had died. I haven't read the book, but I did flip through it while I was stranded at the Salt Lake City Airport. It appealed to me because of my own fond memories of the Last Lecture series at college in which professors told colorful stories of being born in an elevator, or read several of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales aloud in Middle English.
Even though I left Pausch's book on the shelf that day, it kept crossing my path. Eventually I decided that I would purchase La Ultima Leccion, the book's Spanish translation, when I was feeling flush. This way I could read the book that kept following me around and practicar español. Believe me, my español needs a good deal of practicar.
When I read of Pausch's death, I watched the video of the original lecture, Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams as recorded at Carnegie Mellon. Within the first few minutes of the hour plus speech, I got a heavy dose of "your reality makes my reality make more sense," and it was inspired by an anecdote about football of all things. I have zero tolerance when it comes to football.
In his lecture, Pausch told a story of a football practice with his childhood football coach. He's been given a hard time all practice long, and another coach points out the importance of this sort of criticism. He says:
"When you're screwing up and nobody's saying anything to you anymore, that means they gave up... When you see yourself doing something badly and nobody's bothering to tell you anymore, that's a very bad place to be. Your critics are the ones who tell you they still love you and care."This hit a really raw nerve. I know that very bad place all too well.
When I was temping, I knew I was doing a bad job. The work was menial and I never had enough to do. When I bothered to show initiative, I was castigated. I was unchallenged, under-utilized and bored. I listened for my critics, but I couldn't hear them clearly. This was a very bad place to be.
On a personal level, I was really upset by this workplace situation. I was angry in a way that made me feel as if my blood were thick with little toxic beads of quicksilver. I didn't know how to deal with being this angry. So I made work into a sort of a farce. I misappropriated the privilege of free time. I let the quality of my work slip to embarrassing levels. And to my astonisment, my flagrant abuse of the system is what caused my co-workers to be nice to me. People would show up at my cublicle to hear me gripe about the system. When I listened for a critic, I heard laughter. This was a very bad place to be.
When I finally left my last temp job to take a dramaturgy post, I thought I would be able to heave a huge sigh of relief. Afterall, doing something I enjoy as much as dramaturgy should bring me great pleasure. I would do it in my sleep. I would do it for no pay (even though all dramaturgs should make a living wage). I would do it while jumping up and down on the bed with bells around my ankles. Right?
Wrong. The experience made me feel even more miserable, and I considered my work to be subpar. I listened, but I didn't hear any critics. I wasn't even sure I knew who my critics were anymore.
Healthier people might say that their work was acceptable if they do not hear criticism. Healthier people would not need this sort of approval cum thorn in side. But by this time, I knew I was not healthy. I also knew that my way of thinking would not make sense whatsoever to any sort of reasonably healthy person.
This time when I listened for the critics, they came in droves. And the critic said, "I am worthless. I have failed. I don't matter. I am disgusting. There is no one that loves me. I have fucked up. I don't deserve to be alive." And I said it until I believed myself.
This disease took something I love to do, something I know I am good at doing, and it turned it into a source of misery. It made me spend more days that I can count on the floor of my apartment willing myself to die; unable to move even to use the toilet. Months later, even with medication and psychotherapy, I am incapacitated to the point where I am exhausted by an act as simple as brushing my teeth. Each and every effort is feels like swimming through cement.
So, with all due respect to the late Professor Pausch, I would like to say that he is only partially correct. Sometimes your critics are the ones who tell you they still love you and care. And, from time to time, your critics will need a little criticism. But there are some critics who need to be told to go fuck themselves. Gently. With a chainsaw.
24 April 2008
...Use a bit of mustard.
O, rejection letter! Ye bearer of inclement news. Thou slim-sentenced excuse for common decency. Whither must thou wander so frequently into my life?
Rejection letters are an inevitable part of life. Sometimes they are helpful; they can provide a sense of closure or the motivation to seek an alternative path. But I often find these letters to be a tad mean spirited. I mean, if I've been informed that the position has been filled by other candidate, I don't need the next two sentences to proclaim that this person is better than me. I'm smart enough to infer that by the fact that they were hired and I was not.
One of my friends worked in a college admissions office for a time before heading into the wily world of HR. She told me that rejection letters are thought of as a good way to prevent lawsuits. True as that may be, it doesn't prevent many people I know from reading a rejection letter and thinking out loud, "Ugh. This is SLANDER!" Obviously rejection letters are a lot like mustard. A little can go a long way.
I have a confession to make. I've written many a rejection letter in my day. It was a responsibility lovingly schlepped upon me while I served as the lowest-on-the-totem-pole in a theater's literary department. I tried my darnedest to soften the blow. I often made painstaking attempts to provide a warm fuzzy sensation to the recipient of a note that basically boiled down to "your play just ain't our cup of tea."
I took pride in my rejection letter writing skills and, after much experimenting, I came up with an appropriate ratio of "No way Jose!" to constructive criticism. One California-based playwright even took the time to send my boss an email commending my letter as "the best rejection letter" she'd ever received. Soon thereafter, she sent another script. Her query jokingly asked if we could please consider it before then end of my tenure as an intern. I believe we obliged.
A few days ago, I started an interactive rejection letter themed Mad Lib. I'd like to thank commenter Terry Tebeau for filling in the blanks and for the benediction in my employment hunt. TT's response saved me the trouble of having to fill in the blanks with my own answers. As much as I was looking forward to using the term calipygian, Mad Libs are never quite as fun when you do them yourself. Without further bologna, I present to you Rejection Letter by Terry Tebeau.
Dear Blake Yeats:
Thank you for your recent interest in the Crucifix Polisher position at ACME. We have moistened your rabbits, and we believe your background was an amazing and chartreuse fit with our sandwichy criteria. There were five vigorously plain resumes in the job search process. Blocky consideration has been given to each spleen we shucked.
We regret to bury you that the position has been filled by another shoe whose laces and credentials were better suited for our needs. Thus, we will not be offering you the work.Kindly note that company policy prevents us from bending the reason we cannot pursue your sink for this position. We would encourage you to continue to review your fit for shiny vacancies. We wish you the best for your future hardwood endeavors.
Aloha,
Copper Pot Team Lead
ACME
Dear Audra Petrie Veber:
Thank you for your recent interest in the Executive Assistant position at Veber Partners. We have hurried your chairs, and we believe your background was a bland and successful fit with our cold criteria. There were one thousand begrudgingly bright cars in the job search process. Wet consideration has been given to each dog we walked.
We regret to give you that the position has been filled by another plant whose paper clips and credentials were better suited for our needs. Thus, we will not be offering you the water.Kindly note that company policy prevents us from printing the reason we cannot pursue your father-in-law for this position. We would encourage you to continue to review your fit for nosy vacancies. We wish you the best for your future money endeavors.
Good Morning,
Phone Team Lead
Veber Partners
21 April 2008
Don't get hot and flustered...
I woke up to a phone call this morning which delivered some disappointing news: I didn't get the job I had interviewed for last week.
I had tried to keep my expectations low. I knew I was a last minute interview, and (in my experience) arts organizations seem to draw from a steady stream of inside candidates. I can't tell you how many inches my heart has sunk upon hearing that I've lost a job to Ms. Whosorwhatsit, invariably the daughter of someone's college roommate and minder of their beloved pet beagle, Chuckie Darwin.
For the record, I don't know nor do I particularly care if that's the case in this instance. I am mostly feeling disheartened because sometime between the interview and this morning's phone call, I had started to mentally prepare myself for a transition into a new work environment. I am really looking forward to the prospect of working, and I feel particularly discouraged by the fact that this news means I will not be returning to the workplace as soon as I'd prefer.
Initially, I dealt with the disappointment by applying to another job and taking a rather lengthy walk through my neighborhood and several surrounding communities. I didn't think this let down was worthy of tears. I also needed to have a good think, and I know better than to believe that enlightenment will come from the comforts of my key snatching couch.
First priority during my big think was to more clearly gauge the level of my desperation. I can cite several examples that suggest that things are inching towards a critical level. For example, I've been plagued by serious pangs of jealousy anytime someone gripes about being stressed out or over-burdened by their job. I mean, these people seriously have no idea how lucky they are to be dedicating themselves to something other than their neuroses. Plus, they possibly have health insurance. Lucky bastards.
Second issue on the big think platter was how to make myself feel better in the interim. The best solution I thought of was going to church. After all, Jesus H. Christ is probably the most sanctimonious freeloader of all time. I can't help but think that if I hang out with people who think he's cool, I will feel like less of a loser. I don't know that this will actually help. Unless I know people in the congregation, the only merit to church is the opportunity for daydreaming during a sermon. My daydreams are rather dark and depressing lately. Besides, I'm starting to believe that I may be too old for my other pew-bound pastime, doodling on the bulletin.
Lastly, I dedicated part of my big think to developing a better strategy in the whole "hurry up and wait" fiasco that seems complicit to any job search. I thought that I might use the spare time and my impetus for working to write some research papers. I even thought of a couple of semi-feasible research topics, including the civic role of Czechoslovakian theaters during the Velvet Revolution. Yes, I am that much of a geek.
I returned home not feeling much better. But I took solace in a couple of words of wisdom plucked from, of all places, The Rocky Horror Picture Show:
"Don't get hot and flustered...use a bit of mustard."
Doctoring up food with condiments can make a bad thing taste a bit better. Somehow my mind wandered to another way that a ho hum situation can be made to be a little more saucy.
Mad Libs.
I have not so secretly delighted in Mad Libs for a long while. So, I immediately knew that I would have to please all 2 1/2 quasi-regular readers of this blog with an interactive Mad Lib entry. In the spirit of the day, this mad lib is titled Rejection Letter. Post your answers in the comments. I will post the completed Mad Libs here in a post on Thursday afternoon.
To fill in the blanks, I need:
I had tried to keep my expectations low. I knew I was a last minute interview, and (in my experience) arts organizations seem to draw from a steady stream of inside candidates. I can't tell you how many inches my heart has sunk upon hearing that I've lost a job to Ms. Whosorwhatsit, invariably the daughter of someone's college roommate and minder of their beloved pet beagle, Chuckie Darwin.
For the record, I don't know nor do I particularly care if that's the case in this instance. I am mostly feeling disheartened because sometime between the interview and this morning's phone call, I had started to mentally prepare myself for a transition into a new work environment. I am really looking forward to the prospect of working, and I feel particularly discouraged by the fact that this news means I will not be returning to the workplace as soon as I'd prefer.
Initially, I dealt with the disappointment by applying to another job and taking a rather lengthy walk through my neighborhood and several surrounding communities. I didn't think this let down was worthy of tears. I also needed to have a good think, and I know better than to believe that enlightenment will come from the comforts of my key snatching couch.
First priority during my big think was to more clearly gauge the level of my desperation. I can cite several examples that suggest that things are inching towards a critical level. For example, I've been plagued by serious pangs of jealousy anytime someone gripes about being stressed out or over-burdened by their job. I mean, these people seriously have no idea how lucky they are to be dedicating themselves to something other than their neuroses. Plus, they possibly have health insurance. Lucky bastards.
Second issue on the big think platter was how to make myself feel better in the interim. The best solution I thought of was going to church. After all, Jesus H. Christ is probably the most sanctimonious freeloader of all time. I can't help but think that if I hang out with people who think he's cool, I will feel like less of a loser. I don't know that this will actually help. Unless I know people in the congregation, the only merit to church is the opportunity for daydreaming during a sermon. My daydreams are rather dark and depressing lately. Besides, I'm starting to believe that I may be too old for my other pew-bound pastime, doodling on the bulletin.
Lastly, I dedicated part of my big think to developing a better strategy in the whole "hurry up and wait" fiasco that seems complicit to any job search. I thought that I might use the spare time and my impetus for working to write some research papers. I even thought of a couple of semi-feasible research topics, including the civic role of Czechoslovakian theaters during the Velvet Revolution. Yes, I am that much of a geek.
I returned home not feeling much better. But I took solace in a couple of words of wisdom plucked from, of all places, The Rocky Horror Picture Show:
"Don't get hot and flustered...use a bit of mustard."
Doctoring up food with condiments can make a bad thing taste a bit better. Somehow my mind wandered to another way that a ho hum situation can be made to be a little more saucy.
Mad Libs.
I have not so secretly delighted in Mad Libs for a long while. So, I immediately knew that I would have to please all 2 1/2 quasi-regular readers of this blog with an interactive Mad Lib entry. In the spirit of the day, this mad lib is titled Rejection Letter. Post your answers in the comments. I will post the completed Mad Libs here in a post on Thursday afternoon.
To fill in the blanks, I need:
- Name
- Job title
- Company Name
- Verb ending in -ed
- Plural Noun
- Adjective
- Adjective
- Adjective
- An Amount
- Adverb
- Adjective
- Plural Noun
- Adjective
- Noun
- Verb ending in -ed
- Verb
- Noun
- Plural Noun
- Noun
- Verb ending in -ing
- Noun
- Adjective
- Noun
- Salutation
- Noun
30 January 2008
Much improved, I think...
When I get uneasy, I try to imagine an alternative to reality.
Are you whistling the theme song yet?
The other day I got into a brief debacle with my friend Darius. He said chimps are always funny. I think not.
Okay, this one made me feel better. But only because it was inspired by this:
A response to: American Theater at its Most Compelling
Are you whistling the theme song yet?
The other day I got into a brief debacle with my friend Darius. He said chimps are always funny. I think not.
Okay, this one made me feel better. But only because it was inspired by this:
A response to: American Theater at its Most Compelling
28 January 2008
"If I keep the ice cube trays filled...no one will die."
I recently decided that one's proclivity towards performance runs through the blood. A performer that's not living the life often seems to be a bit anemic, or at least more prone to metaphoric bruising. I'm certainly no exception. Though the performance vein is innate, my identity as a performer has passed through several incarnations. This must is part of the natural process that occurs before one finally figures out how best to fit in with the cosmic puzzle of the performance world.
To cite an early example, circa age four I wanted nothing more than to be a big bosomed blonde with a beautiful voice just like Dolly Parton. I got exactly what I asked for, in certain respects. But I'm no Dolly. And thankfully so, might I add.
In my adolescence, I wanted (very badly) to be a stand up comic. I studied up and became extremely well versed in the routines of big name comics in the mid-90s. As I learned more about comedy as a craft, I quickly realized that it is a very difficult reality. It's not an easy life and it's particularly difficult if you're not funny when you try to be. As I used to say, I wanted to be a comedian but it turns out I just needed therapy.
Like my more ambitious and confident self, my comedian persona now seems to be a semi-fictitious character from long ago and far away. I recognize it sometimes in passing. It's like running into an old acquaintance. I exchange a quick but awkward, "Hey... hey... What've you been up to? Ah... an early retirement! Sounds great. Oh really, it's terrible? I'm sorry to hear that. Well. Gotta go stare at the paint on my walls now. It's been great to see you. Look me up on MySpace, will ya?"
Of course, it was one of my closest friends from way back in my comedian days that introduced me to The Maria Bamford Show last week. I found that I really connected with the little viddy I've included below for the following reasons:
With this post I hope to get the crowcrastination ball a-rollin' again. If you, dear reader, could only see how oft the dreaded red DRAFT label clutters the admin page of this blog. I have a shameful pile of half written anecdotes; there might be a few that are worthy of brushing the dust off the cover.
To cite an early example, circa age four I wanted nothing more than to be a big bosomed blonde with a beautiful voice just like Dolly Parton. I got exactly what I asked for, in certain respects. But I'm no Dolly. And thankfully so, might I add.
In my adolescence, I wanted (very badly) to be a stand up comic. I studied up and became extremely well versed in the routines of big name comics in the mid-90s. As I learned more about comedy as a craft, I quickly realized that it is a very difficult reality. It's not an easy life and it's particularly difficult if you're not funny when you try to be. As I used to say, I wanted to be a comedian but it turns out I just needed therapy.
Like my more ambitious and confident self, my comedian persona now seems to be a semi-fictitious character from long ago and far away. I recognize it sometimes in passing. It's like running into an old acquaintance. I exchange a quick but awkward, "Hey... hey... What've you been up to? Ah... an early retirement! Sounds great. Oh really, it's terrible? I'm sorry to hear that. Well. Gotta go stare at the paint on my walls now. It's been great to see you. Look me up on MySpace, will ya?"
Of course, it was one of my closest friends from way back in my comedian days that introduced me to The Maria Bamford Show last week. I found that I really connected with the little viddy I've included below for the following reasons:
- I've heard that badgering about makeup before.
- Until recently I worked for the Portland branch of that temp agency.
- I totally sing all of my
anxietiesgoblins aloud to myself. All the time.
With this post I hope to get the crowcrastination ball a-rollin' again. If you, dear reader, could only see how oft the dreaded red DRAFT label clutters the admin page of this blog. I have a shameful pile of half written anecdotes; there might be a few that are worthy of brushing the dust off the cover.
26 October 2007
You May Be Suffering from a Condition Called "Life"
I think it might be time to get in touch with my doctor. I have a lot on my plate this next month. I've also been trying to grapple with how my life has been going over the past few weeks, and the results are not so pleasant. Many of my internal monologues are beginning: "If only I had... I wish I would have..." I feel like someone put the Pluperfect Subjunctive lesson of a Spanish for Dummies tape on a permanent loop.
Obviously, I've had a lot on my mind. To add to my list of complaints, things around me aren't quite working right. For example, my alarm clock is a paltry little travel alarm. I've had it for years and it serves its purpose well, despite the years of sustained abuse that has left its plastic frame cracked and dented. One of my favorite features of this clock is a temperature display. Currently, the thermometer on the clock reads 93.5 degrees. That can't be right because if I were to venture a guess, I'd say that the temperature in my drafty old apartment is pushing 50 tops. It's really cold in here. I'd turn on the heat, but the noise is really distracting.
Okay, so an alarm clock isn't a big deal, especially considering that the time is correct. I probably need to replace the battery. But I am continually running into a number of snafus- some of which are probably imaginary. The clock is a good example. When it comes to dealing with the problem, I can identify a potential remedy, but I can't find the impetus to take care of it.
Instead of mustering any sense of urgency, I've been retreating into myself. This must be a hazard of living alone. I don't think the shyness I've exemplified lately is naturally occurring. Something has turned up the amplitude of my introversion. The fact that my work has (temporarily) been largely independent in nature hasn't helped much either, I'm sure.
I probably need to give myself more credit. Let's hope a self-congratulatory pat on the back does the job of a swift kick in the ass. I won't be headed to the doctor anytime soon... who thinks up these atrocious health insurance plans?
02 October 2007
Leavin' on a midnight plane to Brooklyn.
I'm headed off into the wild blue yonder this evening. Wish me luck on the red eye! Tonight's flight is the start of a whirlwind adventure that I hope to chronicle here in the near future.
I still have some last-minute frayed ends to tie up before I leave. In my rush to get stuff done, where am I directing my misplaced anxiety? Forthcoming library fines. They are as yet non-existent, but I fear that I'll misplace some materials I borrowed in my furious wake. Ridiculous!
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