Um, yeah.

So this day at work has been usually unpleasant.  It’s nothing serious – just one of those days that makes it painfully obvious that while I make a “buttload” of money, I am really selling hours of my life for it.  Imagine someone came up to me and said, “I’ll pay you $336 if you let me shorten your life by eight hours.”  Of course, I’d say no.  And yet, every day, in effect, I’m saying yes.

 
I suppose I’m being overly-dramatic.  In fact, I know I am.  It’s not as if I actually work for the eight hours I sit here every day.  Something besides money is gained.  I do email, occasionally write, occasionally work on my inter-personal skills (which need lots of work), et cetera.  There is just no deeper meaning to my work.  It’s so far removed from the pacemakers that the company produces.  I’ve never even seen a pacemaker!

 
So I looked up popular careers for INFPs on the internet today.  If you love Myers-Briggs like I do, go to www.personalitypage.com and check out the info on types.  This is what they have to say about careers for INFPs:

 
“INFPs generally have the following traits:

• Strong value systems
• Warmly interested in people
• Service-oriented, usually putting the needs of others above their own
• Loyal and devoted to people and causes
• Future-oriented
• Growth-oriented; always want to be growing in a positive direction
• Creative and inspirational
• Flexible and laid-back, unless a ruling principle is violated
• Sensitive and complex
• Dislike dealing with details and routine work
• Original and individualistic – “out of the mainstream”
• Excellent written communication skills
• Prefer to work alone, and may have problems working on teams
• Value deep and authentic relationships
• Want to be seen and appreciated for who they are

“The INFP is a special, sensitive individual who needs a career which is more than a job. The INFP needs to feel that everything they do in their lives is in accordance with their strongly-felt value systems, and is moving them and/or others in a positive, growth-oriented direction. They are driven to do something meaningful and purposeful with their lives. The INFP will be happiest in careers which allow them to live their daily lives in accordance with their values, and which work towards the greater good of humanity. It’s worth mentioning that nearly all of the truly great writers in the world have been INFPs.
The following list of professions is built on our impressions of careers which would be especially suitable for an INFP. It is meant to be a starting place, rather than an exhaustive list. There are no guarantees that any or all of the careers listed here would be appropriate for you, or that your best career match is among those listed.
“Possible Career Paths for the INFP:

• Writers
• Counselors / Social Workers
• Teachers / Professors
• Psychologists
• Psychiatrists
• Musicians
• Clergy / Religious Workers “

Do you see “Validation Testing Lead” on that list?  I don’t. 

 
Unfortunately, people on that list don’t tend to make a lot of money.  The only one that does is the Psychologist/Psychiatrist thing, and that’s the one we’ve actually considered.  The only problem is, neither of us have a whole lot of motivation….

 
So question:  What is your dream career?

Roger Lea McBride is the devil as far as I’m concerned.  He is Rose’s “unofficially adopted grandson” and was listed as her heir.  However, Laura’s will left the rights and royalties of the books to Rose during her lifetime only.  Since Rose had no children, the rights and royalties were to revert to the Laura Ingalls Wilder library in Mansfield.  They did not.  Instead, McBride, who was also Rose’s lawyer, inherited the rights and royalties.  He is the one who licensed the show – after Rose’s death, of course.  Neither Laura nor Rose would have allowed them to take such ridiculous liberties.

Okay – I’m done.  For now.

Know what drives me absolutely insane?  All of these websites connecting the Bible to the Little House books.  It is as if that idiotic evangelical sector of the population has decided that they will adopt the books as their own.  Sure, there are mentions of bible verses in the books (though they are never mentioned by name).  Some of the songs are hymns.  Religion does play a minor role.  There is nothing evangelical about it, though.  She attended Congregationalist churches throughout her life, and Congregationalist churches would be considered ultra-liberal by many of these neo-conservatives.  Besides that, Laura considered religion to be a deeply personal thing.  She never officially joined a church, though she attended regularly.  The books certainly advocate being “good,” but that the measure of that goodness is a personal sense of right and wrong.  The books don’t mention sin or hell or heaven.

Okay – done venting.  That (and various other things regarding the public perception of the books) just drives me crazy.

I think this idea of trying to write something (as in poetry) every day is maybe not a good one.  I seem to be writing a bunch of crap (outside of the first two poems on here), and there is no reason to subject people to that.  I don’t think I can really change myself from a basher to a swooper.  I am a basher.  I should just make my peace with that.

In other news, Ozzie is doing better.  I can’t say he’s “okay,” because he really never has been okay.  But he is back to some version of his usual self.  He’s still leaving disgusting scabs around the house and still smells bad and wheezes and is unnaturally thing.  However, he has started purring again and is no longer bleeding from his feet.  I went back to giving him the steroid and tranquilizer, and it makes a huge difference.  So that’s a good thing.

There are a lot of things I love about living out here.  The Minnesota Wild Rice soup alone almost makes it worth it.  The shopping is great.  The people tend to be really nice.  “Minnesota nice,” it’s called.  All in all, it’s a pretty nice place.

But the air quality is terrible.  They have alerts about 6 times a year.  During an alert, even healthy people should restrict their activity, especially outdoors.  We have an alert right now.  I just climbed a single flight of stairs and feel like it was four or five flights.  Everytime this happens, I miss Michigan more.

I think we need to put Ozzie to sleep.  It’s not an easy decision because there just doesn’t seem to be anything that delineates his everyday suffering from something more extreme.  Since we got the puppy, though, he has really been getting worse.  He doesn’t take pleasure in the things he used to.  He can’t sit on my lap because the puppy bothers him.  He can’t relax in a patch of sunlight because the puppy chases him out of it.  The last time I really saw him purr was two weeks ago.

And then last night, he started leaving bloody footprints.  All the skin on his nose is gone now, and Greg said that the next thing would be his feet.  Basically, he is losing the skin from the pads, and as that happens, his feet bleed.

I will always be grateful that Magnus has been so kind to Ozzie.  Most people think he’s disgusting (and he is).  My dad refused to have him in the house any longer.  No one wants him on their lap (understandable).  But Magnus holds him and pets him and talks to him almost every day.  He tries to make Ozzie’s life (such as it is) more comfortable.  There are a lot of great qualities about Magnus, but that tenderness, that is how I know for sure that I made the right choice in marrying him.

So anyway, I think we will give Ozzie lots of wet catfood and avacado and chicken and anything else he loves for the next few days, and then I will make an appointment for Greg to put him to sleep.

I want to write something every day I’m at work.  It doesn’t matter if it’s good.  It doesn’t matter if it’s long.  It’s about quantity, I guess, rather than quality.  Quality can come later.

I always think of Kurt Vonnegut and his theory on writing.  It’s so memorable and so real to me:

“Tellers of stories with ink on paper, not that they matter anymore, have been either swoopers or bashers.  Swoopers write a story quickly, higgledy-piggledy, crinkum-crankum, any which way.  Then they go over it again painstakingly, fixing everything that is just plain awful or doesn’t work.  Bashers go one sentence at a time, getting it exactly right before they go on to the next one.”

Vonnegut said that women are usually swoopers, and men are usually bashers.  Like so many qualities traditionally ascribed to men, this applies to me too.  I’m a basher. 

Being a basher has advantages and disadvantages.  It’s a great quality to have in a pinch.  It’s what allowed me to write an A paper the night before it was due.  It means that generally, when I send something out into the world, I like it.  I feel that it’s done.  But on the other hand, being a basher can be a liability.  I think it keeps me from writing.  I expect perfection (the best parts of the image in my mind), and when it isn’t perfect, I get frustrated. 

So my plan is to try to combine bashing and swooping.  I sit here all day at work, doing nothing of any real consequence to the world.  I’m wasting my time (even if I’m getting paid for it).  If I write even one crappy poem a day, I’m doing better than I have been for the last four years.

To anyone who reads this:  stick it out if you feel like it.  There’s bound to be some good stuff in there somewhere.  I just need to remember how to write.

This year the figure skaters seemed to fall

more than they should,

harder,

with unprecedented drama,

arms and legs splayed out

in all that suprised mortal gracelessness.

The force of each fall is transformed into energy,

propelling them upward again,

pushing as they glide smoothly,

to reclaim their unnatural grace,

their pride,

if not their hope or the gold.

I call you,

my fingers propelled by all the force

of years we watched together,

breath held as one:

a perfect triple axle,

the certainty of a solid landing.

All this melts as you answer

with mortal gracelessness.

You flail, grasping

for my name

and then the words.

The aneurysms slam you to the ice,

unable to glide again.

My heart swallows hard,

rolls with the force of the blow,

and rights itself.

The gold is gone.

My dad once made this great analogy about perspective:  Two people can be looking at the same object (a bouquet of flowers, say), but the object is different for each of them.  No matter how close they are sitting, the viewing angle is slightly different.  Beyond that, they each bring different past experiences to their perception of the object.  For instance, say there were lilies at my grandfather’s funeral.  If there are lilies in the bouquet, they will might make me think of that.  Someone else might not feel the same.

This is really true with anything.  In some ways, it is a lonely feeling to know that we are so isolated in our view of the world and of people.  No one else really shares anything with us.  Even writing about something, as I am now, does not truly share the perspective.  It is said that a piece of writing belongs both to the author and the reader, and this is really true.  A poem is different for different people because each reader brings his own personality and memories, his own perspective to the piece.  Perhaps that is part of this need some people have to believe in a higher power, someone to share our perspective.

So it is a wonder that we can communicate with each other as well as we can.  We shouldn’t be suprised when communication breaks down, but rather, we should be in awe that it ever works at all.  Still, because I am a good communicater, because I make my living and my relationships by that skill, I am so stunned when I fail.  In fact, much of the time, I don’t even notice until it is called to my attention.

I

I once compared you to an opal,

its flashes of color like the fire in you,

the charisma that sparkles in your eyes and smile.

My favorite friend, my favorite stone.

II

An opal is 5.5 on Moh’s scale,

so fragile that a well-placed blow will shatter its fire.

I wanted to offer a bezel of protection.

III

Years later, I know us both better. Since that comparison,

you’ve borne three children without anesthesia,

learned to sustain a marriage,

and still helped me through my own maelstrom of doubts.

You are your own bezel,

my favorite stone, my favorite friend.