Apoyo

Not much has changed, but little by little I'm seeing some improvements, largely because of good people in my life.

Still no job, but over the last few days I've sent in a couple of applications for real jobs at real universities that would give me real paychecks. I'm keeping my fingers crossed. I discovered these listings because of a lovely relative who told me where to look. I would never have found this site on my own.

A wonderful professor of mine from my MA has been helping me with my grant proposal and application (much more than he ought to feel remotely obligated to do). One component of the proposal that had been worrying me was the requirement of securing a letter of affiliation from a foreign institution. In the past, not all candidates have been sucessful in filling this requirement. Imagine: you send a letter to a professor or a librarian or an archivist or a research lab director whose name you've found on the institution's website, essentially a cold call, saying "I'm a student/graduate at University X, I'm writing a grant, you don't know me from Adam but is it okay for me to come invade your lab for a year in the unlikely event that the committee should award me the grant?" Now you understand why it can be sticky. However, if an applicant is lucky enough to know someone who has a connection to another someone at that institution, and the first someone is willing to organize an introduction and give a recommendation. . .well, it significantly simplifies the process. I happen to have such charmed luck, since my prof did his PhD at the university whose aid I am soliciting. He's already heard back from the friend we've asked to sponsor me, in the affirmative. Now I'm just waiting for the hard copy of the letter. With some auspicious aid, I've gotten over one of the biggest hurdles in this lengthy process.

Last week I had coffee with a friend who is a fantastically experienced creative writing instructor and editor, and over the course of our chat I shed some fears about writing fiction. There's a novel that's been rolling around in my head for several years now, and I haven't had the courage to really start it because it's such an important story to me, one that I believe has to be told, and I'm terrified of screwing it up. I love this story. It's a bit of folklore that has haunted me since childhood, and over the course of my life it keeps creeping back into my consciousness. I've come into an awareness of its universality. Writing it down and fleshing it out intimidates me. My friend told me to just write it, that passion for the story matters, and the rest will work out in the editng process. It's still slow going in these earlier stages, but I'm working it out mentally in ways that I hadn't been able to before, being blocked by fear. It may take a month or a year or ten to get this manuscript onto paper, but it will happen.

God bless these people. It's good to feel like I'm not going it alone.

Escribo, escribo

The two parts of my life that suck right now:

1. I am sending out résumés like mad and still have no job.

2. After a nice stint of around eight years free of them, I started have panic attacks again about a week ago. I've had two now, and I hate them. They're awful in their moment, but mostly I hate them because they're a sign that I'm cracking up and they make me feel like a wus that can't handle life. Luckily I have a mostly-full bottle of anti-anxiety sedatives that the good doctor prescribed for me last fall. I used only one pill the week of my comps, but I'm glad I kept the rest in the drawer.

Some other parts of my life that rock right now:

1. My husband (this is always, not just right now).

2. After an icky stint of writer's block, I've broken free and am writing again. A dear editor friend sent me a wonderful exercise for sketching a novel. It's proven useful. So, I'm writing that novel I've been joking about for a while, the one I swore I'd never really write. It's taking shape and my excitement about it is super-nerdy, even for me. I'm planning a couple of other novels when this one gets going. I still have to flesh out the plan for that non-fiction book, but it's finally coming together. Most importantly at present, my research proposals have moved beyond "ugly mess" to "workable".

3. The data collection stage of the current research project is up and running. I love my data.

4. I think I'm on track for my big intimidating scholarship/grant application. God bless the offices at CU that still help alums.

5. The seeds I planted ten days ago have finally sprouted.

So, I'm hopelessly unemployed, but I'm keeping busy.

poquito a poco, ¿progreso?

Still no job offers, but my CV looks lovely (thanks Aunt Tam!) and will be sent out in multiples to various intitutions of higher education this very afternoon. So, something is happening. Now, if only I could find something to tide us over for the rest of the summer. . .

I've spent the last half hour on the laughably named "servicio de cliente" line for our bank in Mexico, trying desperately to get a bank statement. The poor girl just couldn't get it into her head that we wanted it sent to the U.S., and that I can't just drive over to my local branch at the moment. She transferred me to an English speaker, and now my husband is dealing with her and seeming to have better luck. I love Mexico, but somedays I am exasperated by Mexico, even when I'm not there. It's similar to the relationship I have with the U.S., but one of the two is home, at least.

I realized something a few months ago that I never posted: if I take apart the name of our former residence, completely ignoring its true etymology, I come up with something like this: peñ-asco. Ha! Porque me da asco. Ay, el asco que me daba! I know, if you don't speak Spanish you don't get it, but it means something like, "Wow, but that rocky place sure is nauseating".

But I'm back in my nation of citizenship, jobless but without necessity of a work visa, and hopeful that something will come up shortly.

And a regretful(?) notice to Rocketgirl: don't hold your breath for us join you in your prospective Wisconsin anytime in the near future. Sorry.

Suspendida

It's been nearly a full month since I've posted, and even though not much has changed I feel ought to say something. You know, for posterity and all that nonsense.

I'm still in the ranks of the unemployed and our savings is slowly draining. Unfortunately neither of us can apply for unemployment benefits; I graduated and failed to get a job, and my husband resigned. Dangit. The job market really is awful here. I'm hopeful for teaching gigs in the fall, but until then the mortage is still due on the fifteenth of every month, and student loans are coming due. The word "forbearance" hovers in my thoughts. We have no health insurance, and without it the bare minimum of my prescriptions costs over $200 per month. Ouch. I know I shouldn't single-handedly determine which drugs and can and cannot do without, but I can't afford to pay a doctor out-of-pocket right now, and it's not like I haven't been managing my own medications for years. My slim wallet makes the decision easier. I got home from the pharmacy the other day and just cried.

In other downer news, one of my cousins commited suicide recently. The funeral was earlier this week, and it was a rough one. Weeping, wailing, and a cardboard homily that failed to console anyone. The Catholic Church has become a little more pragmatic about giving funeral masses to suicides and now allows it, at least in this diocese, and when somebody ponies up and pays for the mass. It's cynical of me, but I observe that doctrines are prone to increasing maleability when those who hand them down are in a dire financial situation. I'd like to know what cruel, uncompassionate sadist of an early church father invented the doctrine that suicides go straight to hell and the policy that they can't be buried in hallowed ground. Way to blame the victim and torture the bereaved souls of the family. What happened to God as a loving Father who judges us not only by our actions, but by our hearts? I hardly think that an otherwise good and loving person, who but for unbearable emotional anguish would gladly have gone on living, will be judged so harshly. That's my take on it, anyway. I, for one, do not count my cousin's soul as lost to damnation. On a more personal note, even though I hadn't been close to this cousin in many years, his death was an ugly reminder to me of what I'm up against. Is it for better or for worse that these things run in families? For me, it increases both the comfort and anxiety factors.

But enough of the negative. On the upside, I got to see some family that I hadn't seen in a while. I wish it had been under better circumstances, of course. These things are bittersweet. Joblessness means that I had the whole day to go to the funeral and back, and that I have time to spend with family and friends while I wait for someone to pay attention to my résumé. Now that we're back I realize that I was completely justified the degree to which I missed my friends and my Colorado life while we were in exile in that rare part of Mexico that is both ugly and unfriendly. The beach was nice, but friends are so much better.

It's good to be home, even if my life doesn't seem to be moving.

Esperando. . .no sé

I suppose I ought to say something since I haven’t posted in a while, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m happy to be home. I’m happy to have left Mexico before this swine-flu media mess made the border crossing potentially stickier. I’m happy to be back among so many friends.

There are worries here, of course. At the moment, we’re both unemployed. I’m looking for work and doing some of that research that I didn’t have time to do while I was getting my MA. Meanwhile, my husband is studying to take the state Bar Exam at the end of July and feeling out work opportunities. It’s funny—since we’ve gotten back several people have told us what a lousy economy we’re coming back to, and what a difficult time this is to be looking for work. Ha. They have no idea. I want to tell them how awful things are in small Mexican resort towns where the economy depends almost solely on tourism, how relatively safe things are in a diversified employment market with minimum wage laws. I’m not saying the job market is great here, because it isn’t, but it’s a far cry better than Peñasco.

I feel a little like my life is in a hover pattern right now, and I’m not quite sure what’s next. Work, hopefully. Health insurance and access to a prescription for anti-depressants, hopefully. I’m still hovering on the edge of starting a couple of books, but at the moment I’m focusing instead on some research proposals and getting started with the research itself because those things are more concrete and less difficult to articulate than some of the other ideas knocking around in my head. I can be an very, very organized person, but sometimes it’s hard for me to bring my ideas down out of the ether and organize them into something coherent and readable. Of course, I don’t want to discuss any of my ideas in such a public forum because I’m completely paranoid about being plagiarized, or just plain robbed of my ideas before I’m able to pounce on getting them published.

I’ve spent most of the day gathering information to apply for a big scholarship. It would cover my research expenses, including travel, for nearly a year. Competitive, of course, and the application process is unbelievably long and complicated. Cross your fingers for me. If I get this, I can walk into just about any PhD program i choose when the research is done. That's what they tell me, anyway.

I’m still feeling a little lost, but at least the fog is clearing.

La vanidad

The other night my husband had the channel on one of those cable news shows where people argue at high volume. That evening, the topic was Miss California’s statement about gay marriage, and a panel of pundits were loudly taking turns (a term I use generously) defending her and tearing her apart.

The point that everyone missed: this is the Miss America Pageant. My husband’s initial reaction to the whole situation, even before analyzing what she had to say, was "I can’t believe they still have that thing. Why does anyone care what a beauty contestant thinks?" Indeed. Why do we still have that thing? I know some people think that Miss America hearkens back to a more wholesome time, but there has never been anything wholesome about it. Any way you cut it, it is public debasing and exploitation of women who, seeking validation in something so superficial and fleeting as physical appearance, hollow-headedly conspire in their own objectification. Miss America reinforces our society’s skewed perception of women as mere pretty pleasure-givers. Proponents of beauty pageants argue that they teach self-confidence. Hooey. They undermine self-confidence by teaching that a woman’s value lies in being Barbie-grade “beautiful”, and that the girl with the shiniest teeth and best bikini-body wins in life. By that standard, Mother Teresa with her imperfect teeth is not a role model, and neither is anyone whose belly is a little saggy from bringing a child into the world, nor anyone whose nails are less than manicure-perfect from hard work. ¿Qué? Beauty pageants reduce the value of femininity to sparkly dresses, tiaras, and camera-perfect make-up and hair. The pseudo-profound questions that the judges ask them are a mockery of the true intelligence and articulate expression that so many women cultivate.

I’m not saying pretty is bad. I’m not saying that a person, male or female, shouldn’t take care of their appearance (and hygiene, please). A good haircut or a good dress can help a person feel more confident, but it shouldn’t be the main source of confidence. What I’m saying is that the pursuit of beauty shouldn’t swallow up a person’s identity, and that it should never define a society’s value-judgment scale of womanhood. If we insist on judging, there are better measuring rods out there.

In her later news interview, Miss California reaffirmed and defended her stance on gay marriage. In a way I admire her for standing up for her beliefs, for refusing to take the politically correct position. What I don’t admire is her phrasing, her insistence that she was being "biblically" correct. Did she miss all those parts about modesty? About vanity? About looking not on the outward appearance, but on the heart? The Bible euphemistically refers to homosexuality as "abusing" the body. Would she defend parading in a bikini before the eyes of a lascivious crowd as something other than abuse of the body? Is that body, made public property, a worthy vessel of the Spirit? If she's going to claim moral high ground, maybe she should pay more attention to holy writ than to whether her roots need a touch-up. Admittedly I’m no saint, but I am suspicious of the soundness of the moral foundation of someone whose heart is so set on the vanity and praise of the world.

Was it a loaded question? Yes. An inappropriate question for the venue? Probably. Maybe she didn’t win because of what she said. Entirely possible. And maybe she didn’t win because the other girl had better hair or eye make-up or perkier boobs. We’re kidding ourselves if we say that the quality of these women’s minds matters to their audience. I have to wonder, what weight do our views on marriage, heterosexual or otherwise, carry in a nation where we still celebrate such an assault on real womanhood? Just wondering.

Distracción

There is something freaky going on with my husband's job, and it distresses me. Please don't ask questions, I don't know the answer. Given that the situation is delicate and I don't understand it anyway, I will write about something absolutely unrelated. Our life in Peñasco is mired in confusion, but the Mississippi of fiction is mired in something much juicier.

My husband is a patient and un-jealous soul. He is resigned to the fact that when I pick up a novel that really grabs me he will lose me a little during the reading of it, and nobly fails to feel the least bit threatened when my heart goes adolescently pitter-pat for a man that exists only in the literary ether.

I am currently reading Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom!, and I am in love. I am in love with the prose, the story, the words, the eloquent half-page run-on sentences, and the flawed people that populate the pages. That, and I have a desperate crush on Charles Bon.

Charles Bon represents the worst of all that has ever made me swoon, long before I matured to associating “sexy” with stability, work ethic, motivation, fidelity, and an absence of relationship drama (all of which is not to say I don’t love my husband’s sexy hair). But I am seduced. In the same way that Jason Compson Sr. tells Quentin how Charles didn’t have to seduce Judith Sutpen because he’d already gotten Henry under his spell and so Henry seduced his sister with the idea of Charles on his behalf, so Faulkner has vicariously seduced me with his description of Charles, and the Frenchman didn’t have to lift a finger. Jason Sr. describes Bon’s apathy (almost ennui), his careless way, and I think it’s kind of sexy. Is it surprising that I find his sentiments toward his bought woman tender and magnanimous? That there is appeal to his pragmatic argument that they, women reared solely to love and be loved, are the last truly chaste women in the Americas? That his laissez-faire approach to life (because who cares about the Adam Smith and a free trade economy?) makes me want to sit under the oaks, smelling the magnolias and watching the river crawl past? It’s that mellow c’est-la-vie that makes Louisiana creole culture so appealing. It would be that way even without the food (and you all know how I feel about food. Oh, pralines, chicory and beignets, bisque and etoufée. . .)

New Orleans, the city itself, is a seducer, and by association are its natives. The sultriness of the air paws at you. A New Orleans drawl pauses to kiss the earlobes before the sound makes its way inside the ear. It is a low, soft voice that obliges the listener to lean in a little closer to the speaker, making even a conversation of virtuous content feel sensual and intimate. Even a low laugh from grey-eyed grandmother calling me "bou" or "chère" is warm and rich like molasses. It is a distinct voice. That is how I hear Charles Bon’s voice. Even without imagining dark creole features and penetrating eyes, the drawl tugs at me. I heard that voice in my head when I read the letter written in stove polish.

The stove-polish-ink-on-pilfered-French-watermark, the un- love letter, drew me in. It is devoid of frilly romance, devoid of compliments (aside from "I will not insult you by saying". . .) and I love yous. Its pragmatism, its fatalism, its honesty, its eloquence make those pretenses superfluous. The fatalistic laissez-faire is infectious, so much so that when Henry kills Charles by the front steps the seduced reader fails to hurt, except for the loss of such a lovely being. The blank tragedy of it is sultry, the kind of emotion experienced in the dusk with the eyes half-closed. Judith understood, and so it is the letter that remains, not what WAS but what IS, passed to Mrs. Compson to safeguard that letter’s moment of stark ironic beauty.
It’s a good thing I was officially sworn off men for a while when I lived in Louisiana, and probably a better thing I didn’t spend much time in New Orleans. Listening to that voice for days uninterrupted would have gotten me sooner or later. Some women may go in for more understandably romantic types like Edward Cullen, and that certainly makes loads more sense (and don’t even ask how I know that name, blame it on mass media because I have not wasted any precious reading time on that book). Leave it to a supernerd like me to get sucked in by a pragmatist, bigamist, French-creole beauty of a man in a decidedly unromantic bit of prose. Grotesquely, I vaguely remember having a hopeless crush Quentin Compson for the intricate, if depraved, inner workings of his brain in that last day before his suicide, when I read The Sound and the Fury in high school. I suspect that was unhealthy, but his mind is so very, very lovely.

Having spent time in the Mississippi of flesh and blood and terra firma, I do not have particularly warm feelings for the place. But Jefferson, Mississippi I may not mind, for all its flaws and the wrecked lives of its inhabitants. From the distance drawn by pages and print and fiction it’s a beautiful place (and right now anything greener than Peñasco is a little bit of heaven). From that same distance Charles Bon is the most beautiful man (not) alive. (Be assured that my husband holds my off-paper equivalent of that esteem).