snowpocalyspe

I've come to the conclusion that, though it's possible that there are places in the south that do it worse, Philadelphia does not do winter well. Actually, southeastern Pennsylvania in general sort of fails at winter.

Growing up in the middle of the state, things were different.

Central PA for real, none of this "Harrisburg" nonsense

It snowed a lot more, but whenever it snowed, plows were out and about immediately. It was incredibly frustrating to me as a child because school was hardly EVER canceled. I recall having nothing but absolute loathing for the inhabitants of Jim Thorpe, which came right before "Jersey Shore" on the school cancellation lists. Those jerks always got snow days. People drove in the snow, unless it was sleet or something equally treacherous. And, for some reason, houses were always warm.

Philly is, as a city, moderately difficult to plow to begin with. But, since winters are mostly filled with 33 degree rains that kill the soul, they don't particularly seem to try to prepare for anything else. So when the snow does fall, it's just an absolute mess. Philly is, as a city, moderately difficult to heat as well, it seems. Row homes seem to have been designed by architects who were all hung over during the "design for proper insulation" part of their education. Even those houses that hold their heat moderately well are often kept frigid anyway in an attempt to keep the cost of electricity/oil down.

I don't much like it, which sort of depresses me, as I loved winter as a little girl. It seemed magical, and exciting far longer than I was told it would. In fact, the only thing that made winter really start to be unpleasant for me was Philadelphia. No wonder the thought of getting the heck out of here keeps dancing in and out of my head.

Not that winter in warmer climes was much better. In Cannes, I was absolutely miserable. Not only was the school only allowed by the government to turn up the heat very slowly over a period of weeks, but the building didn't really have doors. It was more of a piazza-type setup, which was lovely in the breezy fall, but once December arrived, I often went to bed swaddled in jeans, pajama pants, two sweaters, and a wool hat. To add insult to injury, it rains more in Cannes during the winter than it does in London the entire year 'round. My bones constantly ached from being cold and damp. Actually, now that I think on it, the first of the month we had decided to go for a plunge in the Mediterranean. Thankfully I wasn't there for much longer after that, because I don't think I got warm again until I landed in Heathrow.

So I don't like winter when it is cold enough to be cold, but not cold enough to snow. In fact, I dislike it enough that it makes other things in life seem crappy when they aren't. I guess I have been distracted from this realization in the past because I was busy being upset about other things. Now, I'm happy enough to have Seasonal Affected Disorder.

...awesome?

back to my roots

In days of yore, when I used to compose blog posts more frequently and talk a whole lot less of how much I love waking up early in the morning, the entries I wrote had substance.

Unfortunately, this substance was most frequently expressed in my bewailing the rather pathetic tendency I possessed to fall head over heels in love with fast-talking, well-meaning-but-still-a-bit-hopeless, charming, silly asses with some of the world's most heart-stopping smiles.

Or perhaps just one in particular.

I do not necessarily regret this rather excessive emotional vomit because, as mentioned in previous posts, I apparently process things by writing about them. Sometimes by writing about them a lot. Vaguely. Vaguely despite the fact that everyone knows what I'm talking about. But as I read through what I've written, though it was relevant at the time, it has become a bit... tedious. Tedious is too good of a word. It's just really freaking dull.

Example of stock post from the past year, coming up about once a month, if not more frequently:

I will start this post out with something shocking/witty/interesting/outrageous. I will describe it a bit, and how said thing relates to my life. Somehow, I will slowly go forward towards the fact that Things Are Okay. By about the third paragraph we will reach the point where I say, "Well, I mean, not super okay because I am sad because blah blah blah doesn't love me blah blah blah." But okay. Now I will try to be witty and say something about life. Now I will try again.

Ugh.

So now that that's over (yes, dear reader (all two of you), I promise never to make a thinly veiled Ethan reference ever again), it's time to get back to what I really want to write blogs about:

British television.

Since late December, I have watched an astounding amount of television, and every single bit of it has been produced by the BBC. It started over Christmas when I used my parents' Netflix account to download the first episode of All Creatures Great and Small, which is a series that started in 1978 and ran until 1990 and is based on the series of books about the pre- and post-WWII life of three country veterinarians. The books are written by and based upon the real-life experiences of James Herriot. The television series turned out to be whimsical, easy-paced, and altogether delightful to watch. The characters are all richly developed and played by fantastic actors, the three male leads being Christopher Timothy, who plays Herriot himself; Robert Hardy (of Harry Potter Minister of Magic fame), who plays his senior partner, Siegfried Farnon; and Peter Davison (who went on to play the fifth incarnation of Doctor Who), who played his irascible younger brother, Tristan. I spent the entire Christmas break watching the first and second seasons.

Because of an absolutely insane crush on the youngest vet (much to the chagrin of my family, who found him to be the least likable character), I was motivated to start watching Doctor Who, an aspiration I had cherished for quite some time. I had planned on starting with the episodes Davison did right around the time I was born. You see, I have this rather awful habit of becoming rather enamored of actors and watching everything they ever made in very short periods of time.


That's him there on the far left.

Unfortunately, very few of the Davison episodes streamed instantly on Neflix. I'm somewhat obsessed with watching things in order, so I instead started watching the "reboot" of the series, which started in 2005. It was then I was acquainted with this fast-talking, well-meaning-but-still-a-bit-hopeless, charming, silly ass with one of the world's most heart-stopping smiles.


Unfortunately, there was no photographic evidence of said smile.

The show is fun in a way sci-fi isn't anymore. Don't get me wrong - I love BSG with a deep and driving passion. But it makes me sad. And there is a very specific reason I enjoy science fiction. It is fun. I don't necessarily long for legitimacy in my televised fiction. I long for enjoyment and wit. I want to laugh. I want something good enough to convince me to willfully suspend my disbelief. Shows like BSG, God bless them, don't give me that chance because they try so damn hard to be realistic. Honestly, I can hardly place them in the same genre, because they have such incredibly different intentions. I love Doctor Who because it makes me feel like Star Trek makes me feel. Fun. Optimistic. Hopeful. All things that aren't necessarily default emotions in my world.

I think that's why I like British television in general - at least what I've been watching lately. It's not the subject matter that matters to me. It's the dialog and the way it's delivered. And there really isn't anyone who can turn phrases in a way that strum my heart strings like the British. I'm the sort of girl who still laughs until she cries over the first chapter of Great Expectations and almost all of The Pickwick Papers. I hardly need plot, or even in-depth characterization. Just give me a dapper man who can say "Pish posh," with a dash of completely heterosexual zest, and I'm blissfully content.

If you don't believe me, you should read this (which is the Introduction to an edition of Wodehouse's Jeeves stories, written by Hugh Laurie). If it doesn't make you laugh, or at least smile in a shadow of delight, then I think there is no hope for your dreary soul, and you can go watch LOST until you find out the island is really a drifting tropical singularity in the Andromeda galaxy.

Honest to blog

I do not understand blogs.

Well, I mean, I understand them in as much as I understand how they work, what purpose they serve, and the sort of materials one is likely to find on one. What I don't understand is this blog. More specifically, how writing about something, anything, in this blog makes it seem somehow less emotionally severe after I hit the bright orange "PUBLISH POST" button.

At the time of the previous post (two days ago), I was experiencing the sort of existential malaise that made me seriously consider packing up and moving to parts unknown. Today, I feel refreshed and bright and new and, perhaps most importantly, head-over-heels in love with this damn city. I suppose it is possible that I am just that mercurial, but it does seem to happen that, with a few notable exceptions, once I verbalize emotions or fears or what have you, they most definitely subside.

Is this some sort of exhibitionist therapy? Once I expose my problems for the universe to see, I feel better about them and care less?

Perhaps it's just the thought that, yes, my life is rather wonderful at the moment, but yes, it could get better, which is simultaneously depressing and delightful.

difficulties

I am having a hard time.

It's sort of odd, really. Now of all times is not the time for hard times. But I suppose they come without really asking. How utterly trite.

With the blessedly permanent homework dearth that has been thrust upon me, I've finally had some time to think about things. The real sort of thinking - not the "I'm-going-to-post-a-blog-about-how-I'm-going-crazy," reactionary sort of pondering. Soul-searching, perhaps. Or maybe it's just the winter and I am too cold to do much else. I've been rather quiet about these things because it just didn't seem necessary to write them out. But I do enjoy wantonly airing my problems for the entire Internet to see, so, in no particular order, here is a list of the things with which I am having a hard time :


The fine line between "intentional" and "political."
I feel like I know a lot of people who try to live intentionally. I might even consider myself one of them. But I am starting to get the idea that things that are done with "intentionality" almost seem like they're done for show, and don't really represent the day to day reality of how a person or organization functions. It might be how said entity wants to function, or the sort of person they aspire to be, but it isn't quite real. It upsets me, but I wonder if it isn't part of life - if in order to be a certain way, we must first act as though we are. It comes out like false advertising.

Fake it till you make it, and all that.

Perhaps it is effective both in manifesting change and in drawing interest, but it seems like lying to me. Of course, it should be taken into account my fondness for brutal, savage honesty in all parts of my life. So perhaps this sort of behavior is normal. But I wonder, is it really acceptable? It's left me disillusioned about quite a few things of rather intense importance to me, and I'm not quite certain what to do about it.


Just how comfortable am I being alone?
I mean a lot of different things by "being alone." Single, simply not hanging out with anyone, avoiding social interaction, being avoided... and anything else that generally means not seeing a lot of people. I would say that the past year has been my most hyper-social to date, trying to fill in the gaps in my bruised-up, sissy-girl heart with so much STUFF that I didn't feel the loss anymore. It served its need for the time, but now I don't really feel like being quite so social anymore. In fact, I'm quite happy at home with a good book or something to watch most of the time, interspersed with meaningful small gatherings of my nearest and dearest, which due to divided loyalties and colder temperatures, rarely ever happen. Maybe I don't care because it's cold. Or maybe it's because my social ability is pretty much maxed out at this point. I work. I come home. I am tired. I get to talk to my roommates, but beyond that I'm past the ability or need to socially weary myself to the point of forgetfulness. I'm not sure. I do know, though, that I am horrible at meeting new people, and sometimes pretty awful at starting inorganic conversations with the people I do know.

Not exactly the best combination for starting up a scintillating social/love life. Which is sort of depressing. But I don't know if it's depressing enough to make me change my ways. A friend said to me the other day that I've been working really hard at other things (i.e. career), so I've been neglecting that part of myself. But working on such a thing seems... well, rather revolting and pathetically desperate. I would (at the time of this writing anyway), much rather be alone. Isn't love supposed to be serendipitous? Or is it more... intentional (perhaps I just have a problem with that entire concept). Perhaps I just associate love with the brutal, almost entirely humiliating sort of emotion it has been and anything healthy is "gone beyond recall or desire."

And I don't know. Maybe I do try. But the last man I asked out didn't even respond to the request, so that is what it is...


So do I really want Philly anymore?
I love living in the city. I love my dear friends here. But the hold this it has had on me seems to be weakening, probably based on what I've already mentioned. I'm coming up on my four year mark in this dirty, lovely mess of a metropolis. That's a long time, longer than I've lived anywhere in the past decade. About this time last year, I wanted to move away to escape. Now... well, I just feel like maybe things are stagnant here. The thought of starting my professional life in a European urban center seems utterly intoxicating. I may have just watched one too many BBC mini-series.

Throughout every single thought I have in this post, I keep wondering to myself if this isn't just winter talking. But I have never felt trapped or disenchanted in the winter before. Depressed maybe, but for specific reasons. Now it just seems like maybe I've worn out what life has to offer in this city. I feel isolated because of my career, and I'm honestly not certain the reason, other than perhaps I feel like I've exited the world I used to be a part of and entered an entirely new one, not really populated by anyone else I know here in Philly. I like this new world. I like it a whole lot. And maybe that sounds arrogant, but I don't know how else to describe it. And I suppose it's fair to say, as I'm sure the huge number of my friends in serious-heading-towards-marriage relationships, or those who have children, or those who are in school, or those who are just cruising for awhile can attest to, you have different needs and things you want to talk about and do, depending on your stage in life. And I am here and I don't know who else is (it's possible there are more of us and I just don't know it) and it makes me sad. But perhaps when it is warm again, I won't feel it as much. It's difficult to say.

MLK and plagiarism and should I care?

It's Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Facebook is blowing up with the same quote about the country spending tons of money on war instead of social programs and it being a sign of spiritual decay. It's a decent quote, although I'd be interested in seeing some I haven't seen already.

I've been progressively annoyed, though, at the fact that instead of quoting the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. as Martin Luther King Jr, King, or MLK, he's referred to as Dr. King. I think about all of those who have the title of doctor throughout history and how I cannot think of a single one (other than Dr. Kevorkian) who is referred to by his or her title. Einstein, Hawking, pretty much any author ever who had a PhD, scholars, whatever... they're all just referred to by their last name. And so it rankled me that King was different. I don't like it when people are singled out like that. I feel like it cheapens them. Maybe that doesn't make sense to anyone else, but it just vibrates some "this is stupid and unfair" vein in my body.

So I did a little research to find out why exactly it is that everyone calls him Dr. King. Maybe there was some reason I didn't know about, and I wanted to be fair and not just reacting to this weird sort of constant desire to always be politically moderate because I think everyone is a dirty liar.

Instead of the sort of information I expected to find, the type that would gently chastise my negativity, I found out that "Dr." King should, by academic standards, have his doctorate revoked, because he plagiarized most of it. I know the link I provided was to a Wikipedia article, but there are other articles I found in Temple's databases which I could link too. He plagiarized the hell out of everything he wrote throughout his entire academic career.

The reasons King plagiarized have been listed, throughout everything I read, to be uncertain. It's possible he didn't realize he was doing it because it was never explained to him properly. It's also possible he was being deliberately deceitful. The former seems more likely, mostly because the plagiarism is so obvious that deliberate deceit would be incredibly stupid. But no matter what the reason, were King anyone else, his doctorate would have been revoked. And so the insistence of individuals to call him, in the face of individuals like Einstein and Hawking, "Doctor," absolutely infuriates me now.

Even more upsetting for me is the knowledge that his speeches, often though of as "seamless works of rhetorical brilliance" are more likely to resemble "patchwork quilts" (Ralph Luker, Plagiarism and Perspective). He pieced together probably all of his most famous works and speeches from other existing sources. This bothers me intensely, not because he did it; he was a busy, active man, doing all he could to save the world as he knew it. Instead it's because the focus on what he has done somehow seems to hinge on his academic and intellectual standing. He was an enigmatic, charismatic, and passionate speaker. He got his hands dirty. He managed to merge the folk preaching style of his people with a sort of preaching that the white majority would find palatable (horrible as that is to say). His methods were genius and he knew how to fuse words together with a sort of mystical quality. He was a real human being who worked hard. That is what we should be celebrating, I think.

I'm going to be honest and say I don't know exactly why this makes me so angry. Maybe because I hate heroes in the real world because I assume that they are liars, and they rarely let me down. Maybe it's because all of the writing geniuses that King stole from deserve some of the respect he has given. Maybe it's because insisting we call MLK Dr. King is giving him legitimacy only by giving him the approval of the (at the time) white academic institution. I don't know. But I do know I refuse to call him Dr. King.

This might make some people mad. I dunno. I'm not saying the guy doesn't deserve respect and love, and maybe even some adoration (I don't think many humans deserve that, and any to whom I give it to it is mostly an illogical, emotional reaction). I didn't post this on Facebook, cause I don't want to ruin this day for the people who have quoted him approximately thirteen times already. Maybe they don't even care that he plagiarized his dissertation. Because the thing is it isn't really about him. It's about what people need (Can anyone tell me where I plagiarized that last line from?). And if he could give that to people in such a way that it catalyzed the beginning of a long-awaited change, then I suppose that's just fine.

repetitive but necessary New Year's post

I am excited for this New Year's Eve, as opposed to the overwhelming trepidation I have historically felt.

I also have no expectations whatsoever.

Since I have spent every NYE since I moved to Philly in some state of meltdown, I would prefer to remain calm and happy. But even the meltdowns were probably for the best. So que sera sera.

All in all, this year was a success, I think.

• I got a ragingly unhealthy friendship under... well... some sort of control.
  
• I earned my masters degree.
• I lost fifteen pounds.
• I found a really good internship where I've learned a great deal and work with some pretty amazing people.
• I finally managed to grow out my hair.
• I bought a sweet bike (twice).
• I was hired for an insanely good entry level librarian position.

There are other things much more difficult to describe. Although I still love a good dance party, I don't feel like I want to go out as much as I did before. I'm happy just being at home, even if I'm completely alone. I like to go to bed before midnight (usually). I have more direction. I have goals, I have a way of achieving them. It kind of feels isolating sometimes, especially when I feel like people around me are very comfortable where they are (or not uncomfortable enough to make any changes).

I really don't know what I think the best way to "live" is, but I do feel like some individuals who claim to live "simply" are just using that as an excuse for their unambitious, lazy lifestyles. On the other hand, you just have to browse the drama section in any movie database to find innumerable permutations of the old story about those MBA-laden "business douchebags"who are too focused on their career and status to actually live. But, really, this can be anyone, not just individuals in the business world.

So where do I want to be?

I don't just mean career-wise, but also physically. I love Philly, I really do, and have up until this point in my life lived in fairly poor sections of the city. Do I want to live anywhere else? Would I move to Northern Liberties, Fairmount, or even Rittenhouse if I could? What about the suburbs (not the Main Line-y ones)? Do they really make a person into sludge? Is this disdain that I have had for them fair? I criticize them from being disconnected from reality. But let's face it... part-time-job-hipster-land isn't exactly reality either.

Perhaps there are a lot of different realities existing at the same time, and the goal is to be aware of them, and walk along the border...?

I don't know.

I feel like I don't know a lot of things.

As a result, I feel kind of grown-up.

Happy New Year.

New Year's resolutions thus far:

So, it's not even Christmas yet, however, I am being struck by various things that I want to do, now that I've realized I have time to do them. It seems good to make them into New Year's Resolutions. So far, I've kept most of the resolutions I've made. Unfortunately, I can't go back two years ago, and see what it was, but I certainly did what I set out to do last New Year's Eve.

So here's the first four:

My music tastes, although they do not necessarily suck, are certainly poorly developed. Too often have I purchased CDs for one single song, and then been stuck with the embarrassing results. No more. I'm going to make more of an effort to purchase music for qualities OTHER than dance-ability. Perhaps I'll go to a few shows, even. Don't want to get tooo crazy though.

Along the same vein, I need to watch better movies. To that end, I reactivated my Netflix account.

I'm going to clean out the basement of my new place and make it into a workshop of sorts where I can refinish things, as well as maybe make some new things. I'll need to figure out how to properly ventilate the place, but it should be otherwise doable.

Finally, I plan to read A La Recherge du Temps Perdu (In Search of Lost Time) in French, and understand it. This very well may take the entire decade. But it just needs to be done, and should probably happen before I'm married or have children. It was either that or Finnegan's Wake, and I don't know if I can handle the latter.