The heck is this thing? I'll give a dollar* to anyone who can explain it.
*Offer may not be sincere.
Sunday 28 March 2010
Thursday 25 March 2010
Talkative
I think I talk too much. No. I know I talk too much.
In the time I have for quiet reflection, I know this, quite forcefully. It's all I can do do remember past gaffes, with SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP in a constant loop dubbed over the dialogue. But in the real world, acting on real things? That knowledge has little effect. Must I rehearse everything I say, so as to edit it of stupidity?
It's like part of me is intelligent, but unfortunately has been placed in control of a brick. A stupid brick.
This was brought on by, uh...
I don't know what brought this on.
I'm going to go play Command & Conquer. INSTEAD OF WORKING!
In the time I have for quiet reflection, I know this, quite forcefully. It's all I can do do remember past gaffes, with SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP in a constant loop dubbed over the dialogue. But in the real world, acting on real things? That knowledge has little effect. Must I rehearse everything I say, so as to edit it of stupidity?
It's like part of me is intelligent, but unfortunately has been placed in control of a brick. A stupid brick.
This was brought on by, uh...
I don't know what brought this on.
I'm going to go play Command & Conquer. INSTEAD OF WORKING!
Monday 15 March 2010
On Chronic Workaholism
Happy Pi Day, Ides of March, etc. I did actually bake a pumpkin pie - recipe and photographs pending my getting it right.
A couple of hours ago, my housemate stopped on the staircase and asked me if I ever do anything but work. It's a reasonable question. I haven't been attending the cake suppers, free dinners, Quidditch matches (let's just say Muggle Quidditch involves running around with a broom between one's legs trying to catch a guy dressed in yellow, and leave it at that), gardening activities, or indeed any other social event held for residents of late. I've stayed holed up in my room, leaving only for the occasional meal (as far as my housemates know, at any rate), working away on the computer.
Obviously I haven't been working as non-stop as my housemates think (there's a lot more one can do on a computer than work, especially if connected to the Internet - look at what I'm doing now). But they are right, in the sense that I've been withdrawing socially in order to focus on my work. And they are largely right, in that I've been working as continuously and for as long hours as I've been able.
Workaholism is a curious thing. In my case at least, it's not an attraction to the work. To my mind, once work becomes fun, it is no longer classified as work - at best you're getting paid to play. Work, by definition, is unnattractive, by virtue of its tediousness or necessity. I think what workaholism is, is the compelling need to achieve something, which can only be attained, or is perceived to be only attainable, by working.
For example, one might become a workaholic out of a desire to earn a lot of money for a specific goal, such as buying a new car. One may be forced into workaholism in order to complete a large project on deadline. One may wish to provide for one's family, and thus grind well past overtime into the night, every day of the week. There are lots of rewards through work, so while work remains disliked, there is a motivation to do it.
In my case, however, the motive is a curious one. I, of course, wish to get the work done, out of responsibility for my project and knowing that I only have a limited, limited time to complete everything. But that is only the reason to do work. The slide into workaholism comes because I know if I stop, such is my inherent laziness that I would not be able to start again, for hours or even days. Therefore I push hard, never daring to stop until my fingers ache from gripping the mouse and a dull pressure forms behind my eyes. It's an addiction - not to the work, but to not stopping.
Naturally, it is not the healthiest way to proceed, but the sole psychological alternative in my case appears to be leaving everything to the last minute, in which sheer panic fuels an acute form of workaholism. Personally I prefer the go-go-never-stop version of things. At least the stress level is constant, and a lot more gets done.
Make that a LOT more. The look on my co-supervisor's face when I presented a 27 x 70-cell data table summarising the analysis of 66 proteins, completed in a mere two weeks, was absolutely priceless. Also priceless: his astonished exclamation that he didn't think there were that many proteins.
Of course, my main supervisor didn't so much as blink. Curse him and his poker face.
A couple of hours ago, my housemate stopped on the staircase and asked me if I ever do anything but work. It's a reasonable question. I haven't been attending the cake suppers, free dinners, Quidditch matches (let's just say Muggle Quidditch involves running around with a broom between one's legs trying to catch a guy dressed in yellow, and leave it at that), gardening activities, or indeed any other social event held for residents of late. I've stayed holed up in my room, leaving only for the occasional meal (as far as my housemates know, at any rate), working away on the computer.
Obviously I haven't been working as non-stop as my housemates think (there's a lot more one can do on a computer than work, especially if connected to the Internet - look at what I'm doing now). But they are right, in the sense that I've been withdrawing socially in order to focus on my work. And they are largely right, in that I've been working as continuously and for as long hours as I've been able.
Workaholism is a curious thing. In my case at least, it's not an attraction to the work. To my mind, once work becomes fun, it is no longer classified as work - at best you're getting paid to play. Work, by definition, is unnattractive, by virtue of its tediousness or necessity. I think what workaholism is, is the compelling need to achieve something, which can only be attained, or is perceived to be only attainable, by working.
For example, one might become a workaholic out of a desire to earn a lot of money for a specific goal, such as buying a new car. One may be forced into workaholism in order to complete a large project on deadline. One may wish to provide for one's family, and thus grind well past overtime into the night, every day of the week. There are lots of rewards through work, so while work remains disliked, there is a motivation to do it.
In my case, however, the motive is a curious one. I, of course, wish to get the work done, out of responsibility for my project and knowing that I only have a limited, limited time to complete everything. But that is only the reason to do work. The slide into workaholism comes because I know if I stop, such is my inherent laziness that I would not be able to start again, for hours or even days. Therefore I push hard, never daring to stop until my fingers ache from gripping the mouse and a dull pressure forms behind my eyes. It's an addiction - not to the work, but to not stopping.
Naturally, it is not the healthiest way to proceed, but the sole psychological alternative in my case appears to be leaving everything to the last minute, in which sheer panic fuels an acute form of workaholism. Personally I prefer the go-go-never-stop version of things. At least the stress level is constant, and a lot more gets done.
Make that a LOT more. The look on my co-supervisor's face when I presented a 27 x 70-cell data table summarising the analysis of 66 proteins, completed in a mere two weeks, was absolutely priceless. Also priceless: his astonished exclamation that he didn't think there were that many proteins.
Of course, my main supervisor didn't so much as blink. Curse him and his poker face.
Monday 8 March 2010
Hailing Taxis
"What's worse than raining cats and dogs?"
In a complete reversal of last year's weather, it's been raining over here. Profusely, in fact. A mere two days ago, we had an attack of hailstones, some as big as a golfball. The beautiful arching roof of the Southern Cross Station is in need of repairs as a result of the aforementioned.
I cannot say I regret it. Storms have something wild and attractive about them, even when it's cold and windy and there's no umbrella. The heat gives one no option but to shrivel up against oneself, drained of vitality, desperate for any sort of cooling relief. Rain gives one strength, pushing one to wrap up warmer and waterproof. Given blistering hot sun and a heavy monsoon storm, I know what I would prefer.
Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for the property damage which has occurred. Melbourne is built to deal with dry weather - heavy rain is almost unheard of. But such a sudden change in weather patterns in itself is a cause for concern.
We with our recycling bins and our Bokashi buckets and our forced vegetarian diets and our carbon offsets and our concern, think we're doing something. But it's minor - so pitifully minor. The real changes needed are things people are too frightened to do.
Meanwhile the rain pours every day.
In a complete reversal of last year's weather, it's been raining over here. Profusely, in fact. A mere two days ago, we had an attack of hailstones, some as big as a golfball. The beautiful arching roof of the Southern Cross Station is in need of repairs as a result of the aforementioned.
I cannot say I regret it. Storms have something wild and attractive about them, even when it's cold and windy and there's no umbrella. The heat gives one no option but to shrivel up against oneself, drained of vitality, desperate for any sort of cooling relief. Rain gives one strength, pushing one to wrap up warmer and waterproof. Given blistering hot sun and a heavy monsoon storm, I know what I would prefer.
Nevertheless, I do feel sorry for the property damage which has occurred. Melbourne is built to deal with dry weather - heavy rain is almost unheard of. But such a sudden change in weather patterns in itself is a cause for concern.
We with our recycling bins and our Bokashi buckets and our forced vegetarian diets and our carbon offsets and our concern, think we're doing something. But it's minor - so pitifully minor. The real changes needed are things people are too frightened to do.
Meanwhile the rain pours every day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)