gushing

A few pints in me, so I'm probably not as self-censorious as I usually am. If that's even a bloody word. After an exceptionally fucking generous offer from institution of the aforesaid, and a few minor questions I asked via email this afternoon, which (in the run-on sentence I'm crafting here) were responded to in a matter of hours, I formally accepted the offer earlier this evening. Of course, I would have taken the job for a few crusts of bread and a kick in the teeth, but it was nice of them to negotiate the kick down to a punch. Or, rather, an insanely flattering offer that has me feeling rather a fraud, as if I've deceived an entire department and search committee, somehow. Value, use-value, exchange-value, price, I know, but this is crazy.

So my 3-sentence email was forwarded to the entire department and staff, and my lovingly, beautifully, exquisitely crafted attachment of the formal letter of acceptance? Nowhere to be seen. Sigh. Written for the broadest audience possible, and the email addressed to the chair is circulated to god knows how many. And still! They're gushing. The emails welcoming me to the department are arriving fast and furious. It's almost embarassing. But, calculatedly, I'll be responding to them tomorrow during more regular hours, rather than after drinking with friends. Call me crazy.

Or, as a friend phrased it to me, "You Win." Which is an AWFUL way to think about all of this, but compared to what I thought was a certain future in North Dakota, it does feel as if I've won. They can gush, I'm gushing too...

Yay!

The call came Friday. I was walking down the steps of the posh house of a friend's parents on my way somewhere else entirely. The giddiness, although compromised somewhat by the sheer exhaustion induced by this whole "blizzard of all time" thing, is giddy.

I did it! Formal offer yet to come, but negotiating this is hardly going to be the most onerous proposition in my life.

So, no snow next winter. Rather sad, that. Flipside, attaining something I've been working towards for, oh, a cool decade now. Cue the music for the next stage....

blathering

Getting a touch annoyed with my complete inability, or rather, my disinterest, in using the blog genre as anything other than a cheap, partially disposable confessional. Perhaps I lack the discipline to become the essayist I once fantasized about becoming (whilst young, naive, and reading the complete essays of Montaigne. Heady stuff.). Or lack the interest. Or lack the discipline to resolve the lack of interest in uttering clearly articulated, well written, observant, thoughtful, witty sharp posts on topics cultural and literary, academic and international. Or lack the interest to resolve the lack of discipline. Or I just get off on cheap word play.

Hurry up and wait. For my mole to inform me how the candidate behind door number four did/is doing. Then, armed with information, I will know nothing more about the black box at the other end of this process than I do now. But it will give me more to fret about, to analyze obsessively. That's not a bad thing, now, is it...

the burden of the proof

Random hypothesis. In English academic writing, the onus is on the reader to understand what is written. In American academic writing, the onus is on the writer to make what is written understood. This generalization should be applied to oral presentations, as well.

And, as a last minute series of observations by friends pointed out, I was falling down the trap of the one and presenting to the other. What larks, Pip, making those corrections, what larks! And, yes, I managed to chill the fuck out for the duration. Hurry up and wait time. My favorite.