Just Contradiction
Thinking is hard.
I actually considered leaving that as the entire post, because I'm having a bad brain day, and that would illustrate it pretty well. But I don't want to give anyone the impression that I'm giving up just because something is difficult.
I struggle with academic thinking. My biggest problem seems to be finding my way to an argument. I have a few friends who think that's scoff-worthy, because they write arguments in their sleep. However, my logic circuits work well enough to understand that being good at something doesn't give you any leverage to make fun of somebody who isn't good at it.
Writing an argument is more than just thinking. It's vulnerable and risky. Writing an argument is like growing a toe out of your shoulder and then wearing cap sleeves. Everybody knows it's wrong, even you, but you grow the thing first, and then you can graft it where it really goes. You're breaking a long-established pattern, and there's nobody to blame but yourself.
When you make an argument, nobody's got your back. Nor should they.
Everybody has an opinion about what I'm doing wrong, and they're all correct, but I don't have the voice inside myself that tells me what part of my work is worth salvaging. When somebody says, You need to make a claim. Be polemic," and then when I try, she says, "You're not experienced enough to make this kind of claim," suddenly everything I've tried to do turns into rubbish.
Like all those times I tried to cook for people, and it's the most awkward thing in the world, and I can see in their faces that I'm being pathetic and ridiculous, and people want to eat potato chips, not canned green beans (which is all I have in the cupboard).
When I was finishing my M.A., I had the option of writing a thesis, or taking three more classes, and it was the easiest decision ever. Because I didn't have anything to say. I still don't. It seems to me the grossest act of hubris and futility to think I can have anything to contribute to these conversations.
I have opinions about everything: I really do, but they are all too clumsy, too flippant, too based on instinct and an implacable skepticism of the obvious. I engage when I should be impartial, and maintain my ironic distance when I should be joining battle.
It's raining, and I'm crying.
When I am balanced, this is what I know: I enjoy thinking, sometimes even BECAUSE it's hard. I know that my guiding principles are compassion, order, and curiosity, and that they are valuable, even if they are undervalued in my field. This dissertation is supposed to come from my authentic, professional self, but I see no way to reconcile Apollo and Dionysus, except in tragedy. And give me some credit for genre savvy: my life is NOT a tragedy, no matter how ironic and beautiful it is. It's a fairytale, and somebody just threw wheat and lentils into the fireplace.
I actually considered leaving that as the entire post, because I'm having a bad brain day, and that would illustrate it pretty well. But I don't want to give anyone the impression that I'm giving up just because something is difficult.
I struggle with academic thinking. My biggest problem seems to be finding my way to an argument. I have a few friends who think that's scoff-worthy, because they write arguments in their sleep. However, my logic circuits work well enough to understand that being good at something doesn't give you any leverage to make fun of somebody who isn't good at it.
Writing an argument is more than just thinking. It's vulnerable and risky. Writing an argument is like growing a toe out of your shoulder and then wearing cap sleeves. Everybody knows it's wrong, even you, but you grow the thing first, and then you can graft it where it really goes. You're breaking a long-established pattern, and there's nobody to blame but yourself.
When you make an argument, nobody's got your back. Nor should they.
Everybody has an opinion about what I'm doing wrong, and they're all correct, but I don't have the voice inside myself that tells me what part of my work is worth salvaging. When somebody says, You need to make a claim. Be polemic," and then when I try, she says, "You're not experienced enough to make this kind of claim," suddenly everything I've tried to do turns into rubbish.
Like all those times I tried to cook for people, and it's the most awkward thing in the world, and I can see in their faces that I'm being pathetic and ridiculous, and people want to eat potato chips, not canned green beans (which is all I have in the cupboard).
When I was finishing my M.A., I had the option of writing a thesis, or taking three more classes, and it was the easiest decision ever. Because I didn't have anything to say. I still don't. It seems to me the grossest act of hubris and futility to think I can have anything to contribute to these conversations.
I have opinions about everything: I really do, but they are all too clumsy, too flippant, too based on instinct and an implacable skepticism of the obvious. I engage when I should be impartial, and maintain my ironic distance when I should be joining battle.
It's raining, and I'm crying.
When I am balanced, this is what I know: I enjoy thinking, sometimes even BECAUSE it's hard. I know that my guiding principles are compassion, order, and curiosity, and that they are valuable, even if they are undervalued in my field. This dissertation is supposed to come from my authentic, professional self, but I see no way to reconcile Apollo and Dionysus, except in tragedy. And give me some credit for genre savvy: my life is NOT a tragedy, no matter how ironic and beautiful it is. It's a fairytale, and somebody just threw wheat and lentils into the fireplace.
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