Psychophant's Rants
25.2.09
Reading, not writing
The reading pile numbers over 6000 pages (with four books around 1000 pages, it is not surprising). After all the revisions and the writing in February, I plan on getting my reading rythm back. I would like to finish at least Anathem, 2666 and Life and Fate.
As well, this month I have noticed that instead of being angry when I start a post and feel drained and well when I publish it, I end up even angrier than I started. So I will be taking a breather, center myself, and I hope I will remember that this was supposed to be about reaching a certain kind of enlightenment. On the English language, if nothing else.
I believe it is because I have been writing for an imaginary reader, rather than talking to myself as I used to. That probably will mean I may do some weird experiments when I get back. ¶ 5:14 PM
The reading pile numbers over 6000 pages (with four books around 1000 pages, it is not surprising). After all the revisions and the writing in February, I plan on getting my reading rythm back. I would like to finish at least Anathem, 2666 and Life and Fate.
As well, this month I have noticed that instead of being angry when I start a post and feel drained and well when I publish it, I end up even angrier than I started. So I will be taking a breather, center myself, and I hope I will remember that this was supposed to be about reaching a certain kind of enlightenment. On the English language, if nothing else.
I believe it is because I have been writing for an imaginary reader, rather than talking to myself as I used to. That probably will mean I may do some weird experiments when I get back. ¶ 5:14 PM
24.2.09
Business & Alcohol
I do not know how it is in other commercial markets, but in chemicals the "old guard" follows the old motto "In Vino Veritas", so they take their drinking very seriously as a way to bond and to make sure that nobody is lying. They may not articulate it as such, but to be trusted you have to get drunk with them.
The problem with such a custom is that it spills out, so they keep drinking when the links are already established, or when there is no sale to be made. Social drinking.
I mention this because in the last days in Milan I have drunk more than in the rest of the year. In just 72 hours I (who was the one who drank less in the whole party) got two liters of beer (one of them an excellent red bock, made in the "brewpub" we were in), seven small glasses of grappa (14 cl) and three bottles of wine. Quite unhealthy, and there was a non-alcoholic meal when a young salesman took me to the airport, with no old guard crew.
I have observed the same behaviour in Germany, Spain, United Kingdom and even the USA. It is less pronounced in France, although it reappears if we travel by train rather than by car.
And that is the biggest problem with this behaviour. These same people go everywhere by car, usually big, powerful cars. Let's just say that while those under 40 are quite aware of what "designated driver" means, these are people who grew up before "Don't drink and drive."
Fortunately the customer has some weight, and the last dinner we went walking from the hotel. But nothing worse than attending a charming restaurant in a farm in the middle of a rural areas and one lane roads and see the only driver ask for a second bottle of wine and then engaging in an in promptu grappa tasting. And ignoring all pointed remarks to all those kilometers we will be together in one car.
Still, I could have said enough, grappled for the keys (not an option after my second glass of wine anyway), refused to go, or asked for a taxi (with an appointment with a plane 150 km away in three hours). So I am mostly angry with myself, angry for not being decisive enough, for risking my life without enough reluctance. In the end it is because I do not dare to publicly oppose my boss, who belongs to the same group. So if that happens at home, it is bound to happen abroad. Because I know better, so I am more guilty than those who just do not think about it. ¶ 12:26 AM
I do not know how it is in other commercial markets, but in chemicals the "old guard" follows the old motto "In Vino Veritas", so they take their drinking very seriously as a way to bond and to make sure that nobody is lying. They may not articulate it as such, but to be trusted you have to get drunk with them.
The problem with such a custom is that it spills out, so they keep drinking when the links are already established, or when there is no sale to be made. Social drinking.
I mention this because in the last days in Milan I have drunk more than in the rest of the year. In just 72 hours I (who was the one who drank less in the whole party) got two liters of beer (one of them an excellent red bock, made in the "brewpub" we were in), seven small glasses of grappa (14 cl) and three bottles of wine. Quite unhealthy, and there was a non-alcoholic meal when a young salesman took me to the airport, with no old guard crew.
I have observed the same behaviour in Germany, Spain, United Kingdom and even the USA. It is less pronounced in France, although it reappears if we travel by train rather than by car.
And that is the biggest problem with this behaviour. These same people go everywhere by car, usually big, powerful cars. Let's just say that while those under 40 are quite aware of what "designated driver" means, these are people who grew up before "Don't drink and drive."
Fortunately the customer has some weight, and the last dinner we went walking from the hotel. But nothing worse than attending a charming restaurant in a farm in the middle of a rural areas and one lane roads and see the only driver ask for a second bottle of wine and then engaging in an in promptu grappa tasting. And ignoring all pointed remarks to all those kilometers we will be together in one car.
Still, I could have said enough, grappled for the keys (not an option after my second glass of wine anyway), refused to go, or asked for a taxi (with an appointment with a plane 150 km away in three hours). So I am mostly angry with myself, angry for not being decisive enough, for risking my life without enough reluctance. In the end it is because I do not dare to publicly oppose my boss, who belongs to the same group. So if that happens at home, it is bound to happen abroad. Because I know better, so I am more guilty than those who just do not think about it. ¶ 12:26 AM
18.2.09
Melancholy
A friend is concerned that I sound melancholical this whole winter. And then she says that Melancholy's risk is its own splendor. And she is right, there is certain nobility in it that its sister, depression, has not.
Melancholy is linked to intellectual pursuits, and that is also the root of its charm. When you share your sorrow, it is melancholy. When you swallow it up and close down, it does not seem so charming, both from your point of view and for those who are around you.
Which it is also something we notice in our interlinked acquaintances, as you worry about the missing person, the silent friend. As long as you are still communicating, no matter how blue you appear, it is a good sign.
It is also part of an "observer effect". I am not feeling that way, most of the time. And yet, when I have the free time and the right mood for writing I am often alone, possibly tipsy, and usually a bit maudlin, or I would not be writing instead of some other possibilities the web offers when you are lonely and moderately drunk.
Looking back even the compilation is melancholical, although it was to be expected. What is strange is that the writing mood has not really changed since November. Maybe I am stuck in one gear, in terms of writing. So I will try some experiments the next few days. Let's see if I can get unstuck by banging on those poor words.
17.2.09
Pet peeve
These last days I have been off line, just because of my most recent peeve. Hotels charging for WiFi access. Come on, guys, I am paying 120 euros for a room, do you expect me to pay for internet access? I know I am on an expense account and it is not me paying, but it is the principle of the thing. If I pay, it justifies charging for it. So I steal broadband out of McDonalds, or check my e-mail in a customer's waiting room. In the worst case, it does not really hurt me to be off-line for a few days. After the first day it is almost a liberation, and my reading benefits, too. But unless it is strictly necessary, I prefer to refuse those nice pages that ask my credit card data in exchange for an internet dose.
In my home territory I know a half dozen places with free access. But travelling abroad, and even more when travelling abroad in business, when the time for yourself is limited and there are no opportunities for exploration, I am a lame duck. So rather than give in to the anxiety and spend my time looking for a source, I prefer to take it as a holiday and just ride the absence. It is not easy at first, but it is possible to live without the internet, and my correspondents can survive several days without the gift of my wisdom.
Nothing like seeing the hardcore addicts, with the mobile phone adaptors and the blackberries to realise what a slippery slope it is, how dependent they are on that piece of technology, the link to so many new things that usually just shows the same old things. Which does not keep them from sending and checking every five minutes, and you can see their thumbs unconsciously scrolling a screen they cannot see, as meetings become more and more blackberry and even phone unfriendly. Hey, respect me, give me your attention, not those twenty second looks in-between e-mail and chat.
As you can see I am all for restricting the use of those tools. You do not take a pneumatic hammer in a meeting, why should I share you with your lazy coworkers? I have flown fifteen hundred kilometers to meet you, pushed my carbon footprint from the red into incandescence, so please, no toys. Your laptop is good (even if you have wifi and your e-mail open) because it will save us time in terms of sharing data, but mostly because you will be too ashamed to use it openly except to take notes. Even a properly used Blackberry is OK, but I do notice when it is proper or not. I do notice when you get a chain e-mail, and I see how you try to forward it stealthily. Please stop or I will shout. NOW! ¶ 8:18 PM
These last days I have been off line, just because of my most recent peeve. Hotels charging for WiFi access. Come on, guys, I am paying 120 euros for a room, do you expect me to pay for internet access? I know I am on an expense account and it is not me paying, but it is the principle of the thing. If I pay, it justifies charging for it. So I steal broadband out of McDonalds, or check my e-mail in a customer's waiting room. In the worst case, it does not really hurt me to be off-line for a few days. After the first day it is almost a liberation, and my reading benefits, too. But unless it is strictly necessary, I prefer to refuse those nice pages that ask my credit card data in exchange for an internet dose.
In my home territory I know a half dozen places with free access. But travelling abroad, and even more when travelling abroad in business, when the time for yourself is limited and there are no opportunities for exploration, I am a lame duck. So rather than give in to the anxiety and spend my time looking for a source, I prefer to take it as a holiday and just ride the absence. It is not easy at first, but it is possible to live without the internet, and my correspondents can survive several days without the gift of my wisdom.
Nothing like seeing the hardcore addicts, with the mobile phone adaptors and the blackberries to realise what a slippery slope it is, how dependent they are on that piece of technology, the link to so many new things that usually just shows the same old things. Which does not keep them from sending and checking every five minutes, and you can see their thumbs unconsciously scrolling a screen they cannot see, as meetings become more and more blackberry and even phone unfriendly. Hey, respect me, give me your attention, not those twenty second looks in-between e-mail and chat.
As you can see I am all for restricting the use of those tools. You do not take a pneumatic hammer in a meeting, why should I share you with your lazy coworkers? I have flown fifteen hundred kilometers to meet you, pushed my carbon footprint from the red into incandescence, so please, no toys. Your laptop is good (even if you have wifi and your e-mail open) because it will save us time in terms of sharing data, but mostly because you will be too ashamed to use it openly except to take notes. Even a properly used Blackberry is OK, but I do notice when it is proper or not. I do notice when you get a chain e-mail, and I see how you try to forward it stealthily. Please stop or I will shout. NOW! ¶ 8:18 PM
16.2.09
Resonance, encore
I do not wish to give the impression I spend all my time in the past. Most of the time I just ignore all the baggage taking place in my attic and I just live my life.
But the present is what I am immersed in, so when I write either I am venting or I am escaping the present, so it is to be expected that the past, with its ghosts, becomes a hideaway. That way I end up writing too much on the past, mainly because I cannot live and write at the same time.
Also most of the time the undercurrents are just that, hidden under the conscious surface. Usually they require a trigger, and in my case it is music the perfect trigger. There are a couple of movies and some books that are quite charged, in terms of active memories, and Acqua de Parma makes me feel like 21 (much less pleasant than it sounds), but the ideal triggers are songs. That can also be done deliberately, choosing a playlist to feel dark blue or rosy pink, or something in between. I have at times to change the association of a certain song, usually one I like to lose an unpleasant emotion, or to rid one I hate of all meaning. It seldom works, but I still keep trying. Emotions are not limited to people. Wim Mertens' "The Personnel Changes", and in a lesser amount the rest of the record Motives for writing, makes me feel at the same time exhilarated and apprehensive, because I used it a lot as soundtrack while playing Doom in a computer with no speakers. Demon blasting power, and some frights, and they stay with me.
I have just checked and there are a lot of songs I liked at some moment that are missing in my i-tunes set, even songs I have included in compilations. Too risky for a casual listen. Meanwhile others I had to work hard to track down, but are a guaranteed upper. I am listening to one now, Fort Walton - Kansas, from The Rock soundtrack, and I would be hard pressed to explain the why, except saying that one of my best friends and me used to go every week to the cinema, alternating choices, and that was such a best choice, that it fills me with raw happiness, from a lost part of myself. Then there is Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, that I had never listened to, but it is the favorite song of someone dear to me, so now I only need to hear it to think of her.
When our internet friends circle exchanged music CDs, I could not help but associate some people to one of their choices. But others got a different association, from what I listened to while I read or wrote to them, to some very appropiate lyrics. The links are not always straightforward, but usually they can be easily traced. Usually, as it took me five years and a chance comment to link my strong love for The Penguin Cafe Orchestra and a night spent holding and talking with a special someone, when getting up and changing the CD was out of the question, so it was looping the whole time.
I suppose this is more or less a general effect, to different degrees, but as someone who always was on the extremes, it is hard for me to envision how it is for those closer to the mean. Or rather, if I am far from the mean or not, just because some tests say so. I dislike being bound to stale feelings that refuse to go, but I really enjoy the layered contents that many songs have, and how I can tune my feelings with the right soundtrack. Or how to revive some past emotion to drown the current, unwanted one.
Again, for testing purposes, I have made myself cry. The right Nina Simone, with some help from a couple glasses of grappa and some Spanish old songs, and it is a given result. I cannot keep writing. ¶ 11:08 PM
I do not wish to give the impression I spend all my time in the past. Most of the time I just ignore all the baggage taking place in my attic and I just live my life.
But the present is what I am immersed in, so when I write either I am venting or I am escaping the present, so it is to be expected that the past, with its ghosts, becomes a hideaway. That way I end up writing too much on the past, mainly because I cannot live and write at the same time.
Also most of the time the undercurrents are just that, hidden under the conscious surface. Usually they require a trigger, and in my case it is music the perfect trigger. There are a couple of movies and some books that are quite charged, in terms of active memories, and Acqua de Parma makes me feel like 21 (much less pleasant than it sounds), but the ideal triggers are songs. That can also be done deliberately, choosing a playlist to feel dark blue or rosy pink, or something in between. I have at times to change the association of a certain song, usually one I like to lose an unpleasant emotion, or to rid one I hate of all meaning. It seldom works, but I still keep trying. Emotions are not limited to people. Wim Mertens' "The Personnel Changes", and in a lesser amount the rest of the record Motives for writing, makes me feel at the same time exhilarated and apprehensive, because I used it a lot as soundtrack while playing Doom in a computer with no speakers. Demon blasting power, and some frights, and they stay with me.
I have just checked and there are a lot of songs I liked at some moment that are missing in my i-tunes set, even songs I have included in compilations. Too risky for a casual listen. Meanwhile others I had to work hard to track down, but are a guaranteed upper. I am listening to one now, Fort Walton - Kansas, from The Rock soundtrack, and I would be hard pressed to explain the why, except saying that one of my best friends and me used to go every week to the cinema, alternating choices, and that was such a best choice, that it fills me with raw happiness, from a lost part of myself. Then there is Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, that I had never listened to, but it is the favorite song of someone dear to me, so now I only need to hear it to think of her.
When our internet friends circle exchanged music CDs, I could not help but associate some people to one of their choices. But others got a different association, from what I listened to while I read or wrote to them, to some very appropiate lyrics. The links are not always straightforward, but usually they can be easily traced. Usually, as it took me five years and a chance comment to link my strong love for The Penguin Cafe Orchestra and a night spent holding and talking with a special someone, when getting up and changing the CD was out of the question, so it was looping the whole time.
I suppose this is more or less a general effect, to different degrees, but as someone who always was on the extremes, it is hard for me to envision how it is for those closer to the mean. Or rather, if I am far from the mean or not, just because some tests say so. I dislike being bound to stale feelings that refuse to go, but I really enjoy the layered contents that many songs have, and how I can tune my feelings with the right soundtrack. Or how to revive some past emotion to drown the current, unwanted one.
Again, for testing purposes, I have made myself cry. The right Nina Simone, with some help from a couple glasses of grappa and some Spanish old songs, and it is a given result. I cannot keep writing. ¶ 11:08 PM
15.2.09
Resonance
Back in my youth at school almost every year we had tests, emotional intelligence. Typically I scored in the top percentile in four categories. Abstract thinking and memory recall were traditionally considered positive. The problem were the other two, introversion and resonance.
Almost all my life I have fought against introversion, with varied success. Now I am able to meet unknown people and stay functional, if I can prepare for it. In the right mood, I can hold a place in a fair booth for days. So yes, I think I cope.
Resonance is a different kind of problem. It represented, from what I remember of the tests, how long it took for an emotion to dissipate. How long the emotions resonate, and feed on themselves and on each other, to keep from fading.
So, already back then, I did not forgive nor forget. However as I do not forget, it becomes harder to feel strongly, as all those previous emotions are there taking most of the available place.
There is a second consequence, besides the progressive dulling of the new emotions. So far, and I suspect it will continue, I am unable to move on on people. In a way, I am still in love with my first love in high school, and all the others that came after her. Those others just make it easier to live with still loving with someone. And not seeing them, as otherwise all that unresolved emotion just gets too hard to control.
I contain multitudes, or rather, my skewed images of multitude of people, and I survive either by keeping away of those that do not reciprocate me, and close to those who do, as they help me veil all those others that wait below.
Resonating, like a gong that remembers all the beats it has received. ¶ 4:10 PM
Back in my youth at school almost every year we had tests, emotional intelligence. Typically I scored in the top percentile in four categories. Abstract thinking and memory recall were traditionally considered positive. The problem were the other two, introversion and resonance.
Almost all my life I have fought against introversion, with varied success. Now I am able to meet unknown people and stay functional, if I can prepare for it. In the right mood, I can hold a place in a fair booth for days. So yes, I think I cope.
Resonance is a different kind of problem. It represented, from what I remember of the tests, how long it took for an emotion to dissipate. How long the emotions resonate, and feed on themselves and on each other, to keep from fading.
So, already back then, I did not forgive nor forget. However as I do not forget, it becomes harder to feel strongly, as all those previous emotions are there taking most of the available place.
There is a second consequence, besides the progressive dulling of the new emotions. So far, and I suspect it will continue, I am unable to move on on people. In a way, I am still in love with my first love in high school, and all the others that came after her. Those others just make it easier to live with still loving with someone. And not seeing them, as otherwise all that unresolved emotion just gets too hard to control.
I contain multitudes, or rather, my skewed images of multitude of people, and I survive either by keeping away of those that do not reciprocate me, and close to those who do, as they help me veil all those others that wait below.
Resonating, like a gong that remembers all the beats it has received. ¶ 4:10 PM
14.2.09
Memories, retrieved.
I wish to recover some nice memories, as I did in the past in the blog. Because I would not mind remembering how it was to be unashamedly happy, and there are not many of those without the use of mood alterants (in my case, almost always internally produced, but love always does it to me). It has been some time since I last felt happy, and the lack of unhappiness does not balance it out.
There are still quite many, even if a few may be due to memory edition, though the one that has been helping me keep the stress away the end of the week is almost fifteen years old. But it is still warm, and shiny, maybe from all the rubbing.
It was a morning in May, while I was working at Angers, in the Loire valley. I was a post-doc researcher, a mercenary scientist, following the grants and doing research on command. My social life was limited to my co-workers, as several of them were in a similar situation. The department I worked in had a very friendly atmosphere, but when you are a transient living a 25 square meter studio it is hard to join the full families outings in their big houses and nice gardens.
So three of the transients, Maria, Manu and me, decided to refuse the invitations to barbecues, trekking or swimming pools and go on our own. Maria was an assistant teacher, but she was trying to move to Lyon with her boyfriend, Manu was a graduate student from Paris, and he was finishing his Ph. D. We did not work in the same groups, so we did not talk shop, except in terms of gossip. Both of them are of Portuguese origin, and sometimes we switched from French to Portuguese.
I was the only one with a car, so I had more control on what we would do and where we would go. The aim was to spend the day checking the small villages in the Coteaux-de-Layon vineyards, test the affirmation that you always eat well where they produce good wine, and buy several boxes of wine to take to our respective homes.
The day was one of those gold and blue days so common in late spring, when you alternate brief squalls and clear sun, so everything seems fresh and new, and most people stay in to avoid those brief moments of rain. I could not drink much in the tasting in the different producers we visited, but it was enough to keep up with my less restrained companions. There is something magical in sharing drink, food and song to feel close to other humans. Add an empty gravel road, philosophical cows and that pleasant temperature that it is not cold or warm, and we really felt great.
We had lunch in a farmhouse that offered lodgings and food, huge salads that had a bit of everything they had, and a roasted duck. The local red wine is a bit light, but good enough. The wine we were buying is the sweet white, good on its own or with desserts or foie gras.
The day was a great success, but the best moment came when I deliberately put music by Madredeus in the tape player. Madredeus is a Portuguese group that reinvents the classical fado and other sounds. After a few stunned moments they just joined in, and I just parked on the side till we recovered.
What is more significant for me of this memory is how my own happy feeling that time came from making other people happy, besides the general happiness. That is a general trend in my life, and I think that if someone thinks I am good, it is just because I just enjoy making other people happy. The main reason why I like cooking for others, for instance ¶ 1:59 PM
I wish to recover some nice memories, as I did in the past in the blog. Because I would not mind remembering how it was to be unashamedly happy, and there are not many of those without the use of mood alterants (in my case, almost always internally produced, but love always does it to me). It has been some time since I last felt happy, and the lack of unhappiness does not balance it out.
There are still quite many, even if a few may be due to memory edition, though the one that has been helping me keep the stress away the end of the week is almost fifteen years old. But it is still warm, and shiny, maybe from all the rubbing.
It was a morning in May, while I was working at Angers, in the Loire valley. I was a post-doc researcher, a mercenary scientist, following the grants and doing research on command. My social life was limited to my co-workers, as several of them were in a similar situation. The department I worked in had a very friendly atmosphere, but when you are a transient living a 25 square meter studio it is hard to join the full families outings in their big houses and nice gardens.
So three of the transients, Maria, Manu and me, decided to refuse the invitations to barbecues, trekking or swimming pools and go on our own. Maria was an assistant teacher, but she was trying to move to Lyon with her boyfriend, Manu was a graduate student from Paris, and he was finishing his Ph. D. We did not work in the same groups, so we did not talk shop, except in terms of gossip. Both of them are of Portuguese origin, and sometimes we switched from French to Portuguese.
I was the only one with a car, so I had more control on what we would do and where we would go. The aim was to spend the day checking the small villages in the Coteaux-de-Layon vineyards, test the affirmation that you always eat well where they produce good wine, and buy several boxes of wine to take to our respective homes.
The day was one of those gold and blue days so common in late spring, when you alternate brief squalls and clear sun, so everything seems fresh and new, and most people stay in to avoid those brief moments of rain. I could not drink much in the tasting in the different producers we visited, but it was enough to keep up with my less restrained companions. There is something magical in sharing drink, food and song to feel close to other humans. Add an empty gravel road, philosophical cows and that pleasant temperature that it is not cold or warm, and we really felt great.
We had lunch in a farmhouse that offered lodgings and food, huge salads that had a bit of everything they had, and a roasted duck. The local red wine is a bit light, but good enough. The wine we were buying is the sweet white, good on its own or with desserts or foie gras.
The day was a great success, but the best moment came when I deliberately put music by Madredeus in the tape player. Madredeus is a Portuguese group that reinvents the classical fado and other sounds. After a few stunned moments they just joined in, and I just parked on the side till we recovered.
What is more significant for me of this memory is how my own happy feeling that time came from making other people happy, besides the general happiness. That is a general trend in my life, and I think that if someone thinks I am good, it is just because I just enjoy making other people happy. The main reason why I like cooking for others, for instance ¶ 1:59 PM
12.2.09
Poll
As usual after posting several days in a row and embarrassing myself, I wonder who still reads this blog, and why they do it. After all I deliberately made it harder by changing the address without warning (and it was enlightening that only one person asked me about it).
The who interests me as this blog is as self-centered as making a speech in the shower. However getting actual data on who reads me would change the style, as I would either try to write for them, or deliberately try not to address them. Rather than those archetypes that I balance out depending on my mood.
I even was tempted to set up a poll whether to allow comments. I follow some blogs for the comments rather than the "official" content, but that only works with a sizable number of "followers". I am also thinking of making a new effort to join the new social revolution, and this could be something like getting my feet wet, before people start commenting on me rather than what I write.
This last installment, since November, I am aware at last that there are different kinds of potential readers out there, and total sincerity may not be the best approach. On the other hand it is what puts me in trouble, and as Zorba said (I am trotting out my favorite quotes, which means I am exhausting my own abilities):
"Life is trouble. Only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and *look* for trouble."
Or I could exchange trouble above with travel, and it would be Cavafy's Ithaka in condensed form, which was in my mind yesterday. Maybe I am in a Greek mood as I just ignore most of my work and its stressing surroundings.
Unfortunately that also tends to end up with friends becoming former friends and asking me never to contact them again, so I am a bit hesitant, as I cannot afford to lose the few I still have.
It is not clear to myself where I want to go, so this is an informal poll for my different personalities about where to go with this blog. ¶ 1:00 PM
As usual after posting several days in a row and embarrassing myself, I wonder who still reads this blog, and why they do it. After all I deliberately made it harder by changing the address without warning (and it was enlightening that only one person asked me about it).
The who interests me as this blog is as self-centered as making a speech in the shower. However getting actual data on who reads me would change the style, as I would either try to write for them, or deliberately try not to address them. Rather than those archetypes that I balance out depending on my mood.
I even was tempted to set up a poll whether to allow comments. I follow some blogs for the comments rather than the "official" content, but that only works with a sizable number of "followers". I am also thinking of making a new effort to join the new social revolution, and this could be something like getting my feet wet, before people start commenting on me rather than what I write.
This last installment, since November, I am aware at last that there are different kinds of potential readers out there, and total sincerity may not be the best approach. On the other hand it is what puts me in trouble, and as Zorba said (I am trotting out my favorite quotes, which means I am exhausting my own abilities):
"Life is trouble. Only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and *look* for trouble."
Or I could exchange trouble above with travel, and it would be Cavafy's Ithaka in condensed form, which was in my mind yesterday. Maybe I am in a Greek mood as I just ignore most of my work and its stressing surroundings.
Unfortunately that also tends to end up with friends becoming former friends and asking me never to contact them again, so I am a bit hesitant, as I cannot afford to lose the few I still have.
It is not clear to myself where I want to go, so this is an informal poll for my different personalities about where to go with this blog. ¶ 1:00 PM
11.2.09
Release
Our research department is project oriented. Ideally we have three projects at the same time, a "new development" project, an "improving product" project and a support project, with targets such as reducing emissions, improving costs or just developing a new analytical method.
Those projects should take 90% of my time, to arrange as I see fit. The other 10% should be spent on keeping up to date, watching the competitors, reading research, checking patents...
Unfortunately I am also Product manager for several products. That includes technical customer support, quality supervision (ISO regulated amounts of paperwork), and general troubleshooting. That takes probably 20 hours a week, plus occasional trips to talk with customers and keep informed, or to try to sell them something (with a salesman, as my scientific tendency towards sincerity could mean a lot of trouble if left unsupervised) but also to solve technical problems our products may have caused in existing customers.
Well, sixty hours a week is not what I signed for, but many people do it. Add the transition time between modes of work and we are closer to 80. Unfortunately my real job (and the consultants love saying that to management) is thinking. I often wonder when I am supposed to do so.
Yes, I am venting. Because I like most parts of my job, so I try to do it all. But I cannot devote more than a couple of hours before there is an interruption. Some other part needs feedback, or my boss needs a second opinion on some forecast, or production needs to fine tune something (and wants to share the blame if something fails), or the lab technician got some funny numbers and wonders if the problem is the equipment, the product or herself.
The second problem is that I have three bosses, or none. Three, because the CEO, the subsidiary manager and the R&D coordinator put things on my plate and like to discuss what to do and how things are doing. None, because they are unwilling to give a direct order or to set priorities, "trusting on my own criteria". Nothing worse than a hierarchical structure where the top refuses to take responsibility or give orders (yet they set up hours of inconclusive "informative" meetings), but ask for results, while repeating they are aware that research does not work on demand.
As long as the future looks bright, nobody worries. Things get done, slower or faster, I do more or less what I like, as long as I can convince each of the three that I do listen to their feedback, and the plant keeps working at close to full capacity.
But then a crisis comes, and suddenly customers are uneasy, production slows, less people in production are doing the same work (so mistakes pile up), and management starts the search for a magic product that will reverse all woes.
That stresses me, and as my traditional anxiety release, food, is a bit out of reach, both because I have less time for cooking, and I should cut down on the calories, I am using the blog as a release valve.
It is not my wish, except today, to really discuss details from my work, or the stress it causes me (and there are still marriage, family and friends to add up to the stress), but I wanted to explain why I am blogging more, why those activities that add to rather than replace my normal work (such as the thesis revision) increase even more the stress levels. And why I may appear stressed without mentioning causes. If I do not say, it is almost sure it is work related.
Next week I am travelling most of the week. That will relax me, as there is only so much you can do in a business trip, and the long time spent in cars while somebody else drives may help with the neglected "thinking" part of my job. Pity that work keeps piling up in my inbox while I am out. ¶ 10:36 AM
Our research department is project oriented. Ideally we have three projects at the same time, a "new development" project, an "improving product" project and a support project, with targets such as reducing emissions, improving costs or just developing a new analytical method.
Those projects should take 90% of my time, to arrange as I see fit. The other 10% should be spent on keeping up to date, watching the competitors, reading research, checking patents...
Unfortunately I am also Product manager for several products. That includes technical customer support, quality supervision (ISO regulated amounts of paperwork), and general troubleshooting. That takes probably 20 hours a week, plus occasional trips to talk with customers and keep informed, or to try to sell them something (with a salesman, as my scientific tendency towards sincerity could mean a lot of trouble if left unsupervised) but also to solve technical problems our products may have caused in existing customers.
Well, sixty hours a week is not what I signed for, but many people do it. Add the transition time between modes of work and we are closer to 80. Unfortunately my real job (and the consultants love saying that to management) is thinking. I often wonder when I am supposed to do so.
Yes, I am venting. Because I like most parts of my job, so I try to do it all. But I cannot devote more than a couple of hours before there is an interruption. Some other part needs feedback, or my boss needs a second opinion on some forecast, or production needs to fine tune something (and wants to share the blame if something fails), or the lab technician got some funny numbers and wonders if the problem is the equipment, the product or herself.
The second problem is that I have three bosses, or none. Three, because the CEO, the subsidiary manager and the R&D coordinator put things on my plate and like to discuss what to do and how things are doing. None, because they are unwilling to give a direct order or to set priorities, "trusting on my own criteria". Nothing worse than a hierarchical structure where the top refuses to take responsibility or give orders (yet they set up hours of inconclusive "informative" meetings), but ask for results, while repeating they are aware that research does not work on demand.
As long as the future looks bright, nobody worries. Things get done, slower or faster, I do more or less what I like, as long as I can convince each of the three that I do listen to their feedback, and the plant keeps working at close to full capacity.
But then a crisis comes, and suddenly customers are uneasy, production slows, less people in production are doing the same work (so mistakes pile up), and management starts the search for a magic product that will reverse all woes.
That stresses me, and as my traditional anxiety release, food, is a bit out of reach, both because I have less time for cooking, and I should cut down on the calories, I am using the blog as a release valve.
It is not my wish, except today, to really discuss details from my work, or the stress it causes me (and there are still marriage, family and friends to add up to the stress), but I wanted to explain why I am blogging more, why those activities that add to rather than replace my normal work (such as the thesis revision) increase even more the stress levels. And why I may appear stressed without mentioning causes. If I do not say, it is almost sure it is work related.
Next week I am travelling most of the week. That will relax me, as there is only so much you can do in a business trip, and the long time spent in cars while somebody else drives may help with the neglected "thinking" part of my job. Pity that work keeps piling up in my inbox while I am out. ¶ 10:36 AM
6.2.09
Jargon
The White Russian exorcism became trivial with the other change this week. I have finally finished the penultimate revision of a doctorate thesis. The first, and possibly the last I direct.
The last four years we have had a student preparing a Ph. D., in a collaboration with the local university. For most of the time he has shared my office. It is also with me that he finally travelled abroad, tried to fly without any ID, wore a suit, made a speech, defended his ideas in public...
Now he is finishing the longest dissertation ever presented at our Chemistry Faculty, over 500 pages, mostly because he does not like the usual Academic jargon, and because he shares the office with me, and I/the company am the one paying him, instead of his director at the University. Another problem is that the only people that could understand his work in its entirety work at our multinational competitors, so many things have to be explained quite in detail.
The responsibility kills me some days. I am overwhelmed by the idea that his future employment (the only way my company would employ him is if he kills me first. I hope he does not realize that), his dreams of working in research, and four years out of his 26, are based on some hasty choices I made five years ago, and how well we manage to spin off the results of his work. And we are already late. His contract finished in December, the original completion date was late October. But in October he proposed a change in paradigm (in quite a minor application of mercury porosimetry, but yet...), so that wrecked a good part of the work, requiring a rewrite. Then revisions became a lot of work when we noticed the introduction alone was bigger than most dissertations.
I secured financing for him till July, ideally so he could look calmly for a good post-doctoral opportunity and write several articles from all the material he has collected. Now he may well spend the first three months rewriting and preparing the public defense of his work. Meanwhile, a week later, today I have finally given him my last corrections, and we discussed fonts, font sizes, paper sizes, and covers. I made sure there is no Arial in the book, and the main text will be in Times, as it is right and proper.
You may laugh at the mention of jargon, as well as the public/private research bias, but here is one of my co-director's phrases that we kept, because that is what most Academics will read, and it will appear in many subvention and future projects, opening the preface:
My own draft:
Longer, I know, but it is as if mentioning practical applications, or even using stops was a sin.
And it is one of the tame ones, which is why we keep it.
The feeling of responsibility makes me glad I am not a parent. At least this one is house-trained, able to act without supervision for weeks, and spends the week-end with his parents.
¶ 4:59 PM
The White Russian exorcism became trivial with the other change this week. I have finally finished the penultimate revision of a doctorate thesis. The first, and possibly the last I direct.
The last four years we have had a student preparing a Ph. D., in a collaboration with the local university. For most of the time he has shared my office. It is also with me that he finally travelled abroad, tried to fly without any ID, wore a suit, made a speech, defended his ideas in public...
Now he is finishing the longest dissertation ever presented at our Chemistry Faculty, over 500 pages, mostly because he does not like the usual Academic jargon, and because he shares the office with me, and I/the company am the one paying him, instead of his director at the University. Another problem is that the only people that could understand his work in its entirety work at our multinational competitors, so many things have to be explained quite in detail.
The responsibility kills me some days. I am overwhelmed by the idea that his future employment (the only way my company would employ him is if he kills me first. I hope he does not realize that), his dreams of working in research, and four years out of his 26, are based on some hasty choices I made five years ago, and how well we manage to spin off the results of his work. And we are already late. His contract finished in December, the original completion date was late October. But in October he proposed a change in paradigm (in quite a minor application of mercury porosimetry, but yet...), so that wrecked a good part of the work, requiring a rewrite. Then revisions became a lot of work when we noticed the introduction alone was bigger than most dissertations.
I secured financing for him till July, ideally so he could look calmly for a good post-doctoral opportunity and write several articles from all the material he has collected. Now he may well spend the first three months rewriting and preparing the public defense of his work. Meanwhile, a week later, today I have finally given him my last corrections, and we discussed fonts, font sizes, paper sizes, and covers. I made sure there is no Arial in the book, and the main text will be in Times, as it is right and proper.
You may laugh at the mention of jargon, as well as the public/private research bias, but here is one of my co-director's phrases that we kept, because that is what most Academics will read, and it will appear in many subvention and future projects, opening the preface:
The main aim of this research has been to increase the knowledge of
the influence that the synthetical parameters have on the properties of
precipitated silica and its applicability as a highly dispersing silica in
rubber mixes.
My own draft:
The final aim of this project is to develop a precipitated silica with an
improved dispersion in rubber mixes. To achieve that end we have studied the
physical properties and how to control them through changes in the
synthesis conditions, to reach the desired result in tyre tread
compounds.
Longer, I know, but it is as if mentioning practical applications, or even using stops was a sin.
And it is one of the tame ones, which is why we keep it.
The feeling of responsibility makes me glad I am not a parent. At least this one is house-trained, able to act without supervision for weeks, and spends the week-end with his parents.
¶ 4:59 PM
3.2.09
Rush blogging (or, is it Russian blogging?)
One of those stream of consciousness blogs, that usually indicate that I was drunk, lonely and with access to a computer for a while.
These days I am blogging more than usual. It is a reaction both to getting over the big revision (we are discussing appeareances now, rather than content) and the sudden sighting of a ghost from the past, that has left me a bit shaken, both from the haunting itself but also by how intense my reaction was.
The normal response these last years would have been to note this down in a notebook and later it would have been impossible to really understand the scribblings, with many deep insights lost for ever, or at least till an idle criptographer amuses herself with my notes. Now, with a keyboard and edition at will, when I am in a blogging trend, they can be kept for as long as Blogger remains free.
I have made a sizable batch of White Russian, which is a tricky exorcism drink. It evocates the ghost but has enough emotional baggage from other people and references that I do not risk being overwhelmed. My own small heresy (or personal touch) is that I add brown sugar to the holy trinity, cream, Kahlúa and vodka (Moskovskaya right now) in a cocktail shaker with ice cubes. I stop shaking when the metal shaker is too cold to hold, sieving the mix to keep the remaining ice out of the glass. A thick, slightly foamy, sweet as sin concoction, that goes in silkily and without interruptions. A lounging drink, even if I have a laptop/heater on my lap and I drink when I should be thinking what to write.
Some people have remarked that my English changes as I get intoxicated. Maybe it is their own intoxication talking, and anyway, this will go through without any further revision, though I have had to write some words three times to get them right.
The aim, anyway, is not getting drunk, but getting in a different mood. To see what is riding me, that I am trying to get out of my system as words and text. Bucking as blog posts, trying to rid myself of this wintery presence.
It came with the bad weather, staying at home, neglecting the growing to read pile. Not so unusual, reading three books at the same time, but getting tired of each book after less than five pages, and switching to a different one, that is unusual. As if I am more interested in giving that receiving, which is so totally unlike me.
This will stop however here, before the exorcism. Enough for today. But revisiting this morning's post, is it a lie or is it a secret? Probably a lie, because fortunately I have someone to discuss it, the external observer that injects some reality into the discourse. So despite what possibly was a psyching up post, no juicy content besides the White Russian. ¶ 11:02 PM
One of those stream of consciousness blogs, that usually indicate that I was drunk, lonely and with access to a computer for a while.
These days I am blogging more than usual. It is a reaction both to getting over the big revision (we are discussing appeareances now, rather than content) and the sudden sighting of a ghost from the past, that has left me a bit shaken, both from the haunting itself but also by how intense my reaction was.
The normal response these last years would have been to note this down in a notebook and later it would have been impossible to really understand the scribblings, with many deep insights lost for ever, or at least till an idle criptographer amuses herself with my notes. Now, with a keyboard and edition at will, when I am in a blogging trend, they can be kept for as long as Blogger remains free.
I have made a sizable batch of White Russian, which is a tricky exorcism drink. It evocates the ghost but has enough emotional baggage from other people and references that I do not risk being overwhelmed. My own small heresy (or personal touch) is that I add brown sugar to the holy trinity, cream, Kahlúa and vodka (Moskovskaya right now) in a cocktail shaker with ice cubes. I stop shaking when the metal shaker is too cold to hold, sieving the mix to keep the remaining ice out of the glass. A thick, slightly foamy, sweet as sin concoction, that goes in silkily and without interruptions. A lounging drink, even if I have a laptop/heater on my lap and I drink when I should be thinking what to write.
Some people have remarked that my English changes as I get intoxicated. Maybe it is their own intoxication talking, and anyway, this will go through without any further revision, though I have had to write some words three times to get them right.
The aim, anyway, is not getting drunk, but getting in a different mood. To see what is riding me, that I am trying to get out of my system as words and text. Bucking as blog posts, trying to rid myself of this wintery presence.
It came with the bad weather, staying at home, neglecting the growing to read pile. Not so unusual, reading three books at the same time, but getting tired of each book after less than five pages, and switching to a different one, that is unusual. As if I am more interested in giving that receiving, which is so totally unlike me.
This will stop however here, before the exorcism. Enough for today. But revisiting this morning's post, is it a lie or is it a secret? Probably a lie, because fortunately I have someone to discuss it, the external observer that injects some reality into the discourse. So despite what possibly was a psyching up post, no juicy content besides the White Russian. ¶ 11:02 PM
2.2.09
Secrets
I am terrible keeping secrets. I just cannot help it. Lies I can keep up for years, and I am the kind of liar that ends up believing that long term lies are actually true. Which is why I have to work at keeping separate the memories and the false facts.
But if it is a real secret, one that only I (and usually one other person) know, but others would want to know, there is an overwhelming, exhibitionist impulse to share. Sometimes embarrassingly, when I am the only one really interested in that so called secret (so it is not, actually, one), or worse, when a partner in the secret catches me babbling.
I have taken a two tiered approach to this social problem. One is to avoid keeping my own secrets. The real problem I have with secrets is being unable to discuss it. If several people know it, it no longer is a secret, but it is still possible to keep someone else in the dark about it. Rather than keeping a secret, I would belong to a secret society that discusses private matters. And I can even say that I belong to X, or that someone is a fellow member, as long as those private matters remain private. Unlike secrets, I can keep private matters private, as long as it is a shared concern. It is a matter of perception, so that by having the possibility to say it aloud, I do not feel the need to do so. Publishing it here also works, as this is quite private while also being openly public. At least I need to confide in someone else, so I am not alone with the secret.
The second approach is to refuse to accept other people's secrets into keeping. I think all my correspondents know by now I am not reliable, but I still remind them from time to time, like now, that any secret will probably be shared at one time or another.
Because, as M. Marshall Smith says better than I could:
At least if someone else knows the score, they could keep me straight, and I hate being called out. So my own pride keeps me from deceiving myself.
Every Monday I check Post Secret, another way of sharing those troublesome secrets. Not because I do actually post mine there, but on one hand it refreshes my humanity (more later), and on the other, seeing one or more of my secrets there makes me feel as if I had shared it, as it could have been me the one who posted it. This simple mental trick helps me keep a few secrets after all, secrets that are not really mine but ended up in my hands. Secrets that I try, with mixed success, to keep.
As for the humanity refresher, like many introverted people I grew up questioning whether I was normal or a freak, as I lacked a reliable indication of what was normal and what wasn't, and where was I in the Human set. Or, living inwardly oriented, I lacked a reference of what was human and what was not. When I finally made more than a few friends, that self-doubt faded, but it still resurfaces from time to time. Those secrets are an anchor to the worries and the concerns of all kinds of people, proof that they are like me, or rather, that I am like them.
Oh, and this photo is so totally Psychophant that it makes me laugh every time I click the link. Like a monkey and a pleasure button! ¶ 3:50 PM
I am terrible keeping secrets. I just cannot help it. Lies I can keep up for years, and I am the kind of liar that ends up believing that long term lies are actually true. Which is why I have to work at keeping separate the memories and the false facts.
But if it is a real secret, one that only I (and usually one other person) know, but others would want to know, there is an overwhelming, exhibitionist impulse to share. Sometimes embarrassingly, when I am the only one really interested in that so called secret (so it is not, actually, one), or worse, when a partner in the secret catches me babbling.
I have taken a two tiered approach to this social problem. One is to avoid keeping my own secrets. The real problem I have with secrets is being unable to discuss it. If several people know it, it no longer is a secret, but it is still possible to keep someone else in the dark about it. Rather than keeping a secret, I would belong to a secret society that discusses private matters. And I can even say that I belong to X, or that someone is a fellow member, as long as those private matters remain private. Unlike secrets, I can keep private matters private, as long as it is a shared concern. It is a matter of perception, so that by having the possibility to say it aloud, I do not feel the need to do so. Publishing it here also works, as this is quite private while also being openly public. At least I need to confide in someone else, so I am not alone with the secret.
The second approach is to refuse to accept other people's secrets into keeping. I think all my correspondents know by now I am not reliable, but I still remind them from time to time, like now, that any secret will probably be shared at one time or another.
Because, as M. Marshall Smith says better than I could:
Making something secret makes it too important, elevates it to the point where it runs your life from the shadows. If you hide what's at your core from other people for too long, sooner or later you end up hiding it from yourself and waking up with no idea of who you are.
At least if someone else knows the score, they could keep me straight, and I hate being called out. So my own pride keeps me from deceiving myself.
Every Monday I check Post Secret, another way of sharing those troublesome secrets. Not because I do actually post mine there, but on one hand it refreshes my humanity (more later), and on the other, seeing one or more of my secrets there makes me feel as if I had shared it, as it could have been me the one who posted it. This simple mental trick helps me keep a few secrets after all, secrets that are not really mine but ended up in my hands. Secrets that I try, with mixed success, to keep.
As for the humanity refresher, like many introverted people I grew up questioning whether I was normal or a freak, as I lacked a reliable indication of what was normal and what wasn't, and where was I in the Human set. Or, living inwardly oriented, I lacked a reference of what was human and what was not. When I finally made more than a few friends, that self-doubt faded, but it still resurfaces from time to time. Those secrets are an anchor to the worries and the concerns of all kinds of people, proof that they are like me, or rather, that I am like them.
Oh, and this photo is so totally Psychophant that it makes me laugh every time I click the link. Like a monkey and a pleasure button! ¶ 3:50 PM
1.2.09
Freedom to Read
My parents are the main reason I am a compulsive reader (and my brother is one, too). Yet, giving among other things book to my mother for her birthday, it was clear that we all have different tastes in books, even if there are some overlaps.
There have been always a ton of books in the house. Last time I made an inventory, fifteen years ago, shortly before I moved out, there were a bit over three thousand books. And they have kept buying and reading.
When I first went to school/kindergarden, at almost four (three and eleven months), I already was well advanced in reading, and once I got big enough to handle the big volumes, the encyclopedia became their final option when I started with the endless "Why...?" questions.
Soon books became the default gift in our house (even when I started losing my teeth, I got several times books rather than coins), and we started reading books over our supposed age.
At first my parents kept a few books that they felt were "inappropiate" in the tall shelves. But soon it just was my own sense of what was fun or not what determined what I read. I was supposed to tell what book from my parents shelves (already at 6 I had my "own" shelves, and those I managed as I wished) I wanted to read, to see if it was appropiate or not. As a reminder, my mother (who was the one most at home, so she was the one judging) marked the books as "12", "16" or "No", depending on what age she thought I should have before reading them. Often she ended up rereading them, if she could not remember the book, which tended to push the book to higher ages. When I browse my parents' books I still come across those reminders of my own quest for reading material.
Of course with that system I ended up reading quite a few inappropiate books, under the cover that they were "good literature" and by 12 I had read most of the 16 and quite a few of the "no" books, usually late at night, even if they never really enforced the numbering system. It enhanced the feeling of doing something forbidden, something that was more attractive than some hinted upon activities, or even some explicit ones that I was already aware of.
However, besides the obvious effect of having available books that my parents liked (or bought expecting to like them), there was no deliberate effort to educate our taste or appreciate certain books. We were expected to choose what we liked and what we did not, but that everyone has different taste. Maybe it was because their own overlap was not very large, with my father seeing books as education first and entertainment second, with my mother taking the other position, or even different particular styles (my father loves the most travelogues, while my mother prefers intrigue or crime).
My brother and I have also different tastes, though with a larger overlap, a matter of having roughly the same books to read for the first twenty years of our lives. Besides historical matters I am not so sure of what he does read these days, and I suppose he has the same problem, so we stopped exchanging books as presents years ago, though we still sometimes exchange specific books. I still comb through my parents' books, however, as they are my main source of Spanish written books. And books are still the most numerous gifts we make to our parents.
All this comes because my father has just lent me Bolaño's 2666, because he thinks I will like it. I still find it surprising that he is right. They always know more about us than we expect. ¶ 10:33 AM
My parents are the main reason I am a compulsive reader (and my brother is one, too). Yet, giving among other things book to my mother for her birthday, it was clear that we all have different tastes in books, even if there are some overlaps.
There have been always a ton of books in the house. Last time I made an inventory, fifteen years ago, shortly before I moved out, there were a bit over three thousand books. And they have kept buying and reading.
When I first went to school/kindergarden, at almost four (three and eleven months), I already was well advanced in reading, and once I got big enough to handle the big volumes, the encyclopedia became their final option when I started with the endless "Why...?" questions.
Soon books became the default gift in our house (even when I started losing my teeth, I got several times books rather than coins), and we started reading books over our supposed age.
At first my parents kept a few books that they felt were "inappropiate" in the tall shelves. But soon it just was my own sense of what was fun or not what determined what I read. I was supposed to tell what book from my parents shelves (already at 6 I had my "own" shelves, and those I managed as I wished) I wanted to read, to see if it was appropiate or not. As a reminder, my mother (who was the one most at home, so she was the one judging) marked the books as "12", "16" or "No", depending on what age she thought I should have before reading them. Often she ended up rereading them, if she could not remember the book, which tended to push the book to higher ages. When I browse my parents' books I still come across those reminders of my own quest for reading material.
Of course with that system I ended up reading quite a few inappropiate books, under the cover that they were "good literature" and by 12 I had read most of the 16 and quite a few of the "no" books, usually late at night, even if they never really enforced the numbering system. It enhanced the feeling of doing something forbidden, something that was more attractive than some hinted upon activities, or even some explicit ones that I was already aware of.
However, besides the obvious effect of having available books that my parents liked (or bought expecting to like them), there was no deliberate effort to educate our taste or appreciate certain books. We were expected to choose what we liked and what we did not, but that everyone has different taste. Maybe it was because their own overlap was not very large, with my father seeing books as education first and entertainment second, with my mother taking the other position, or even different particular styles (my father loves the most travelogues, while my mother prefers intrigue or crime).
My brother and I have also different tastes, though with a larger overlap, a matter of having roughly the same books to read for the first twenty years of our lives. Besides historical matters I am not so sure of what he does read these days, and I suppose he has the same problem, so we stopped exchanging books as presents years ago, though we still sometimes exchange specific books. I still comb through my parents' books, however, as they are my main source of Spanish written books. And books are still the most numerous gifts we make to our parents.
All this comes because my father has just lent me Bolaño's 2666, because he thinks I will like it. I still find it surprising that he is right. They always know more about us than we expect. ¶ 10:33 AM
