This weekend at a small gathering I was criticized by a stranger for recognizing a song as being performed by Cake. An acme of maturity, I then criticized them for being an impolite guest. Sorry, hosts; not my place. Enough of that.
During the summers of my college years I worked in my father’s Minneapolis stone yard. He employed me both as a common laborer and as an inventory consultant of types. Beneath this latter hat I would
estimate the volume of stone piles and from there determine the approximate number of rocks present. One afternoon my father was selling off a large piece of carved stone to one of his clients. The gentleman began to question me about my doings. In particular, he was interested in my goals. “Young people today don’t seem to have a lot of goals,” he intoned. True to his prediction, that 20 year-old also didn’t have goals, so I made some shit up to satisfy him so I could get back to mathing. I didn’t have the articulacy or balls to say it at the time, but I think of goals as one of many human attempts to slap delineations on reality, to feel a sense of power over an existence that at any moment can be upended by trivialities. But in a bow to my former inquisitor, here’s a list of some of my short-term goals (3 months).
Gain back ten pounds. Make that eight. To be (appear) healthier.
Make substantial progress in my research/have a committee meeting/sub
mit an NRSA.
Complete two art projects. One a stylized rendition of a medial MRI of my brain, neck, and accompanying tissues, the other a series of photographs showing every 3 hours of murine development from embryonic day 8.0 to 11.5. These undertakings are part of a larger effort to make my apartment indicative of my tastes and personality.
Buy a desk.
During the summers of my college years I worked in my father’s Minneapolis stone yard. He employed me both as a common laborer and as an inventory consultant of types. Beneath this latter hat I would
estimate the volume of stone piles and from there determine the approximate number of rocks present. One afternoon my father was selling off a large piece of carved stone to one of his clients. The gentleman began to question me about my doings. In particular, he was interested in my goals. “Young people today don’t seem to have a lot of goals,” he intoned. True to his prediction, that 20 year-old also didn’t have goals, so I made some shit up to satisfy him so I could get back to mathing. I didn’t have the articulacy or balls to say it at the time, but I think of goals as one of many human attempts to slap delineations on reality, to feel a sense of power over an existence that at any moment can be upended by trivialities. But in a bow to my former inquisitor, here’s a list of some of my short-term goals (3 months).Gain back ten pounds. Make that eight. To be (appear) healthier.
Make substantial progress in my research/have a committee meeting/sub
mit an NRSA.Complete two art projects. One a stylized rendition of a medial MRI of my brain, neck, and accompanying tissues, the other a series of photographs showing every 3 hours of murine development from embryonic day 8.0 to 11.5. These undertakings are part of a larger effort to make my apartment indicative of my tastes and personality.
Buy a desk.
1 comment:
i thought you make goals to distract from reality/present, not to define it.
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