Eye for Drama

A flash of movement on the sidewalk caught my eye as I crested the hillock by Kane. One of the ubiquitous gray squirrels swarming a zigzag accross the sidewalk, oversized crust of bread clamped in her jaws. Just now we seem overrun with squirrels; the autumn brings them out to hunt chestnuts and acorns in the duff. But this one had an entourage -- one of the big glaucous gulls that squeal from the rooftops and haunt the picnic tables of campus. The gull was giving chase: hopping and gliding just behind the squirrel and making determined stabs for the bread crust. Then a second gull glided in to menace from the other side, and the whole dodging, stabbing, glide-hopping trio proceeded off stage left where the squirrel made the peace and safety of a nearby spruce to enjoy her spoils while the gulls sat below, peering after. I've watched birds try to steal food from each other -- contests of will and bluff among and between gulls and crows, for instance -- but this was the first time I had seen them go after a mammal. Still, the real question coming out of this miniature Mutual of Omaha moment is, why am I the only one who stops to watch it?

Winds of Change

I need a new career. No, scratch that. I need a career in the first place. Over the years I've gravitated bonelessly to University clerical support jobs even when I wasn't actively in school, because I am simultaneously extroverted and a virulent snob about the intelligence of the people I interact with. Academics make me at least marginally less crazy than a random sample of normal people. On good days, they do a lot better than that. I need this constant contact with people who value intelligence, who aren't stampeded by polysyllables, who think carefully and broadly, and who articulate what they think precisely and even humorously. Need it.

But, as I'm finding, I also need regular, expanding exercise of the portion of this great big brain of mine that largely lies fallow in the everyday business of handling logistics for other people's creative and intellectual efforts. And, increasingly, I need to feel like that part of me is valuable enough to be well-paid for. SF fandom provides a playground for the intellect, but nobody's paying me for the privilege. I've idled along in support jobs on the theory that eventually I would figure out what I'm going to do when I grow up and then go off and do it, and suddenly I'm wondering if I haven't painted myself into a corner. Or rather, a long, ever narrowing corridor. Sure, I can parlay where I am now into increasingly responsible administrative and managerial jobs, overseeing budgets and handling ever more complex and high-level logistics. Move to herding Deans rather than Chairs. Shoot me now.

The trouble with changing is the same as it ever was, though. What to do? Lucky people have one thing they love and do well, and at least know which way to aim themselves, even if obstacles amass between them and the target. Me, I am involved in mankind. So much fascinates me, so little holds my attention consistently.

Right now I'm recurrently thinking about investigating clinical and research psychology. Or technical writing. Or teaching. Or, since it's proximate and handy, a degree in sociology to become a demographer. But the trick then is how to combine that with a business in utilitarian art glass for home use and a contractor's license. You begin to see the scope of the problem? And all in a field where I feel my work is ethically justifiable and contributes to the greater good of the species. Yeah.

In the meantime, I guess I'd better go fax something.