Written by a practitioner of mathematics, philosophy, taiji, gluten-free cooking, chant, meditation, gardening, and renovation, with no particular end in mind. Were there an end, it would come too soon, and the Path would cease to Wander.
Well, I was having a pretty decent birthday yesterday. Then my mom found a little notice in my mailbox that I had some certified mail waiting for me at the post office. Foolishly, I went to pick it up. It was from ISU. My 2009-2010 contract will be terminal, meaning that, "barring a change in administration"*, I do not have a job after spring semester 2010 ends.
So... now I have to find something else that will keep the bills paid. I was freaking out yesterday until it occurred to me that there was an interestingly ironic option available: apply for a D.A. fellowship and actually get my doctorate. I'm still not entirely sure I want it, but it's a fallback plan if nothing else materializes. Another fallback plan would be to get certified to teach high school, but for that I need to talk to a guy in the department who knew exactly which classes someone with an extant master's degree needed for that.
My reactions have varied from disgust to terror to anger to, oddly, relief. The fact is that I'm a bit sick of what I've been doing. A break, even a forced break, might be a good thing. So long as I'm still able to keep the bills paid, anyway. Looking at the D.A. requirements, it will take at least 2 years, if I max out to 12 credits each semester, 3 years if I stick with the saner 9 credits. I won't be making as much, but I survived on the master's level stipend for several years, so I should be able to manage.
I'm still going to be checking job sites and such, and if I can grab something with full benefits that pays at least what I'm making now, I'll probably take it. INL is one potential option, and they are currently hiring people, but at this moment none of the positions are ones I can take. Unless someone wants to teach me to weld, stat. At this point, if something comes along that pays well and starts before my ISU contract expires, I might just be tempted to get out of the damn contract.
*I went to ask someone exactly what "terminal" meant, and he kept using the phrase "barring a change in administration." I sort of want to think this means that a change is likely, and if the rest of what I was told is accurate, there may be a mass riot soon. Apparently every contract lecturer in the College of Arts and Sciences got one of two letters: terminal or temporary. Terminal means your contract will not be renewed, period. Temporary means it might be renewed, if they feel like it. Now, at least half of the lower level classes at ISU are taught by contract lecturers, more than half in the math department. They're essentially saying that they don't give a damn if we come back or not. I realize that they're trying to get out of paying benefits, but I guarantee you that if they don't change their tune soon, they won't have any contract-lecturers left. They're probably hoping that some of us "terminals" will accept a part-time job, with no benefits. I'd like the chance to tell them exactly what they can do with their part-time jobs...
As for me, I'm sort of crossing my fingers that it's all a bad dream (and I suddenly have a rather literal appreciation for that phrase), but I'm feeling better now that I do have a fallback plan. I would be surprised if I did not get accepted into the D.A. program if I applied, and that would give me a few years breathing room. I'm not ready to leave Pocatello just yet. The other fallback plan is to try again to publish a book... thing is that most authors don't actually make enough to live on from their books. There are the top-tenners, and then there's everyone else. *shrugs*
This is what war is. Glory, victory, honor... all are incidental to the fundamental, inescapable horror and destruction it brings.
Here is some info on the song. There's debate about whether this or the seemingly more upbeat When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again came first. Johnny Comes Marching Home has always sounded to me as if it were intended to be heard ironically. I hear the music and I don't see a triumphant march back home; I see a funeral march. Maybe that's just me, though.
I We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats’ feet over broken glass In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour, Paralysed force, gesture without motion; Those who have crossed With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom Remember us—if at all—not as lost Violent souls, but only As the hollow men The stuffed men.
II Eyes I dare not meet in dreams In death’s dream kingdom These do not appear: There, the eyes are Sunlight on a broken column There, is a tree swinging And voices are In the wind’s singing More distant and more solemn Than a fading star.
Let me be no nearer In death’s dream kingdom Let me also wear Such deliberate disguises Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves In a field Behaving as the wind behaves No nearer—
Not that final meeting In the twilight kingdom
III This is the dead land This is cactus land Here the stone images Are raised, here they receive The supplication of a dead man’s hand Under the twinkle of a fading star.
Is it like this In death’s other kingdom Waking alone At the hour when we are Trembling with tenderness Lips that would kiss Form prayers to broken stone.
IV The eyes are not here There are no eyes here In this valley of dying stars In this hollow valley This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
In this last of meeting places We grope together And avoid speech Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
Sightless, unless The eyes reappear As the perpetual star Multifoliate rose Of death’s twilight kingdom The hope only Of empty men.
V Here we go round the prickly pear Prickly pear prickly pear Here we go round the prickly pear At five o’clock in the morning.
Between the idea And the reality Between the motion And the act Falls the Shadow ......................................For Thine is the Kingdom Between the conception And the creation Between the emotion And the response Falls the Shadow .......................................Life is very long Between the desire And the spasm Between the potency And the existence Between the essence And the descent Falls the Shadow .....................................For Thine is the Kingdom
For Thine is Life is For Thine is the
This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.
This is the Akron Cemetery. Most of the sign of things not allowed has been rubbed off. The only one I could make out for sure was "No bushes." They seem to have been allowed at one point, however, as there are bushes near some of the tombstones. Below the fold are some of the gravestones from my family. First up, my Grandma and Grandad Parker:
The windmill is perfect imagery for my grandad. My earliest memories of visiting Grandma and Grandad revolve around their old farmstead. We'd often stop to get a drink or fill a water jug at the old windmill. Before the water had gone into the tank, of course, which was primarily for cattle to drink out of. The tank was just corrugated metal wrapped into a cylinder. I suppose it had been welded to its base, but I don't know for sure. The windmill stood beside it, pumping water up out of the well. I vaguely remember Grandad having to climb up it and repair various bits of it now and then. I also remember that they used the water to irrigate a small vegetable garden that was nearby. The old farmhouse was maybe 200 feet away. I loved to explore it when I was little. The smell of dust still makes me smile, remembering the place. No one had lived in it for years, but there were still "treasures" to be found. Grandma's old jewelry used to fascinate me, as did some of Mom's old toys. Now I would be more interested in the furniture and fabrics. Unfortunately, the place was robbed and cleaned out back when I was a teenager, and now it's been torn down.
Here's the other side of the tombstone, after I'd added the red pinwheel. It's a wonder the blades aren't blurred, as fast as they were spinning.
Great Grandma Fern:
She outlived all of her children except for Grandma Parker, and Grandma was the one they didn't expect to live past 30. I don't know why she wasn't "Grandma Jenkins." She'd been Grandma Fern long before I came along. According to my mom, I inherited my tendency to rearrange furniture frequently from her. *shrugs*
My mom said that this was her Grandma Parker's grandma... which I think makes her my Great-Great-Great Grandmother.
Last, while I was wandering the graveyard, I came across a few other Parkers. My mom thinks that they're my grandad's cousins. Also a McKie, which was next to these Parkers. Grandma Fern has McKee's in her ancestry, and spelling often changes, so they're probably relatives as well.
