tavie.com

I tend to have trouble breathing in the autumn-time. I've noticed it for years. According to the internet, I probably have some undertreated asthma, or something called "sighing dyspnea", wherein you sigh excessively in an attempt to get more oxygen, and have trouble taking a satisfying deep breath.

I do sigh a lot during work, but it's not because of boredom, but because I'm trying to breathe.

This would be a good time for me to find a doctor that takes my new health insurance, wouldn't it.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:32 PM | shower me with attention

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Did anyone else see Bishop Desmond Tutu on The Daily Show the other night?

What a beautiful, beautiful man. (I'm not even talking about Jon Stewart, who, incidentally, I find very hot.) Bishop Tutu really moved me. Watch the interview on Realplayer if you can, and if you want.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:49 PM | shower me with attention

Sometimes it bothers me that people who know me casually-- through the internet or otherwise-- tend to see only those sides of me that seem to stand out the most. On the internet, my reputation is generally that of an Ardent Fan. That's all I am. A glance at my website reveals two fan shrines and an abundance of self-indulgent rambling (with, admittedly, no pretenses that they are anything other than that.) But it appears that's all I have to offer: my ability to devote more attention to a particular entertainment entity (or five) than most members of the general public.

I've read my Henry Jenkins, and I know that there's certainly nothing wrong with being a fan. But this appears to be, at this point in my life, all I have to offer the world.

Surely I have more to offer than my ability to admire, and my ability to type fast. I have no hopes that I'll turn out to be one of those lucky people who discovers their passion and is able to do it for a living; I know I'll most likely end up with one of those Boring But Necessary jobs that never turns into a career. But I've always clung to that old cliched notion that everyone is born with A Gift, and it's up to them to discover what it is and nurture it.

Is that really true, though? Or is that something that mediocre people tell themselves, that they possess deep pools of untapped talent, if only they could be lucky enough to discover the nature of that talent? What if it turns out that most people are not very good at any one thing, and muddle along the best they can in their mediocrity?

It's not as if I didn't try. I was never inclined towards the sciences, or the performing arts (too clumsy to dance, too scared to sing, too smart to attempt to act.) I wrote my share of angsty, embarrassing teenage poetry and wisely threw it away. I drew what the art teachers told me to draw, but lacked the skill of a draftsman or the imagination of the painter.

Ah, imagination. There's the problem. I like to blame it on the medication. I like to imagine that if it weren't for this pesky Effexor, that I would be teeming with brilliant ideas, itching to create, but these necessary chemicals dull the sharpness of my creativity as well as my depression. There's always a scapegoat, and there's mine.

And the depression, or whatever's at the root of it, precludes me from pursuing the idea that my gifts lie in more human-oriented areas; that I have great skills at communication, or counseling, or teaching. I can't organize, I can't sell, and I don't want to do those things, either.

Hiding behind the depression, you say? That's fine, but let's see what would happen were I to try and go it alone, without the drugs. I remember high school. It wasn't imablanced adolescent hormones that had me unable to get out of bed, and sawing at my arms with steak knives and staring at racks of pills every night. I can't kid myself that I could get along without the medication. That poor little rock in the Zoloft commercials wouldn't just be sitting in a cave, you know, he'd be rolling himself off a cliff.

But there's this one thing I have, and it's too bad you can't call it a gift, but I do have this naive optimism. This sweet, pathetic belief that I'll discover that One Thing that Jack Palance was babbling about in that Billy Crystal movie. It's cute that I think that. Sometimes I just want to pat myself on the head.

Heh. I love you, blog. Stay gold, Ponyboy.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 9:46 PM | shower me with attention

I realize how spoiled the previous post sounds. Oh, boo hoo, being forced to go on a free trip to Amsterdam, right? I understand that most people can't afford to go on trips around the world so often.

The problem is, I'm one of those people, you see. It's not a sense of spoiledness, but a sense of responsibility that's provoking my frustration. If Mommy* pays for me my entire life, and I get into the habit of shirking my responsibilities because fun opportunities come along, it's not a good thing, that's all. Okay, so it's not my dream job, it's not a career-building, bank-filling barrel of laughs, but it is my job and I have a responsibility to my employers.

I felt the need to clarify, and justify my previous remarks because, rereading the post, I realized how it sounded.

*Sarcastic usage of this form of address.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 7:37 PM | shower me with attention

There's an intermittent throbbing ache that shoots through my hand and wrist this afternoon. A coworker, overhearing my whininess, kindly directed me to a wrispad. Then I felt guilty. I must curb the whining impulse.

I'm pissed because my mom just assumed that I'd get Veteran's Day off, so I'd (I'll) actually have to miss THREE DAYS OF WORK to go to Amsterdam, a trip I didn't even want in the first place. I don't see how I can possibly do that and then galavant off to Vienna two weeks later, missing ANOTHER day of work.

I'm really pissed about this. I don't think she understands that I need this job and I need the money and I can't really just drop everything and run off whenever she feels like it.

But if I don't go, she'll have a big whining attack and I'll also probably have to eat the plane ticket price. So I guess I'll try to put in for the time off and feel like a big ass the whole time.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:55 PM | shower me with attention

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

I finally had time to finish The Once and Future King tonight. I wish it hadn't have had to end. I can't remember the last book I finished with the tears streaming down my face.

EXPLICIT LIBER REGIS QUONDAM
REGISQUE FUTURI

Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:20 PM | shower me with attention

Someone in my family just had an interview at an extremely well-known comic book company, and was in the offices of one extremely old-timey comic book publication* (whose poster boy closely resembles our current President), and they remembered our dad from when he used to hang around in said publication's offices back when he was a teenager. In the '50's.

How awesome is that?

*I'm being purposefully vague.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:08 PM | shower me with attention

Overseen/overheard at the West 4 Street subway station this morning: a large, middle-aged woman hobbling down the stairs, screaming at a man two flights below her, "GIMME BACK MY CANE! GIMME BACK MY CANE! I'M CRIPPLED, GIMME BACK MY CANE!" I peered down below and could make out the tip of a sturdy wooden cane disappearing down the stairs. The woman screamed to a man on the stairs, "BROTHER, MAKE HIM GIMME BACK MY CANE!" and the man shouted, "Hey, give her back her cane!" and started running after him. The woman was screaming bloody murder. We all looked on in horror, but then my train came.

Who would steal a cane from a cripple?

Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:22 AM | shower me with attention

Monday, October 04, 2004

I really dislike that Blogger never remembers my password when I'm using Safari; I have to log in every time. Anyone else have this problem?

I had a restful weekend. Weekends are when I get my make-up sleep. The 5-7 hours a night I average during the work week are not enough for me; with my sleep disorder, it's a miracle I get that much, but I've learned from experience that I need about 9 hours, no more and no less, to be at my best. So on the weekends I tend to deposit great amounts into the old sleep bank.

I also like weekends where I don't do anything except read, knit and watch television. If I can make a whole weekend never changing out of my pajamas, that's the ideal. This plays into my Deficiencies As a Young Person Complex*, of course, and some of my friends don't really understand why I don't want to go out to clubs and places with them. Then I feel bad because I know I'm a loser for always wanting to stay in. But it's so cheap and relaxing.

Steph P said to me that she can't wait to see me at 30; this is it, Steph. This is it.

I got Lady Bronchitis to rest most of the weekend, so that's a good excuse. She has to rest, and I have to make sure she's resting.

I do not like the night life, and I do not got to boogie on the disco round, whatever that is. And so forth.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:22 AM | shower me with attention