strike that

or I could just be a mime

Today I had lunch with my landlord’s sister, who works for the Portland Development Commission. It’s not exactly where I want to be working, but it’s close. She invited a colleague and we chatted about planning in Portland over food I couldn’t afford, and they told me that (1) planning is an impossible field and (2) Portland is an impossible place to do it and (3) good luck. But at the end they smiled and said my determination was good, and that the secret was that on the west coast they don’t care about your resume; they care about who you know. This doesn’t much work in my favor.

So what I have to do now is get in touch with all these random people and agencies who are not hiring, and try to get them to talk to me, in the hopes that they will like me, and then remember me one day in the indeterminate future when an entry level position becomes available. I guess it’s time for me to get good at networking.

My head was so full after lunch that I had a pressing need to sit and take notes. I swung into Powell’s. On my way to a chair I passed the History of Science section, so by the time I was sitting down my notebook was in the shadow of a tower of books about navigation and aromatic hydrocarbons and the invention of artificial dye, and my notes began having side notes about this book I’ve had in my head for six years or so. And soon the whole page was split down the middle, with full time planning job notes on the left and a mix of part-time job ideas and book writing notes on the right.

And Good God, the world does not need another book or another writer, and OH how I am aware of this. I find the whole impulse embarrassing. But it seems this permanent-job-finding thing is going to take a while, and perhaps an overambitious and conceit-filled project would give the meantime some direction. Fuck.

Fuck Fuck Fuck.

So I sat a few hours longer, and read and noted, and spent my bus fare on coffee, and walked the four miles home.

posted by tortaluga @ 6:29 PM