I think the secret to 'successful' blogging, if such a concept exists, is to write when you have something to say. I would prescribe whatever the opposite of 'little and often' would be: 'lots and infrequently' has none of the same poetry to it but the point is clear.
I can scarcely, however, leave things as they were when last I wrote.
The evening following my last blog entry turned out to be a little bleak. I genuinely can't think of a time when I've felt more... more what actually? I think the word is empty. Like all the juice of my Rob-ness had been used up and I just had this big unwieldy body to drag about the place. I foolishly decided that the way to solve the spinning head and sick stomach I had after receiving the news that the last concrete opportunity I had lined up for finding a job had gone down the toilet of French indifference was to go and get drunk.
For those amongst you who have ever get drunk on an empty stomach and found it to be an unpleasant idea, I suggest you stay away from the drunk-on-an-empty-soul experience I had that night. It was not pretty. I sort of thought I was going to cry I one point but when I started, it turns out I was just on the verge of being sick. This is the least fun you can have with bodily fluids.
I've always thought the expression 'tomorrow is another day' was an expression for the feeble-minded or the original-thought-deprived but it turns out that it's virtually impossible to go to bed drunk, blue and nighttime-minded and wake up to a bright november day and feel the same as you did the night before.
In the same way that drunken exploits which seemed like a great idea at the time come back to you in horrifying technicolor as the actions of a different person, my mood of the previous night seemed like something unfortunate that had happened to someone else.
True, I was still in the same luckless, hopeless, hapless situation but it somehow didn't matter as much.
So the search goes on. The life of nothing-to-do continues but so does the social life that I've worked at building here. I have a regular French squeeze (she expressly told me I'm not allowed to use the word 'girlfriend' so I use the word squeeze out of pure spite!) and at the pub quiz we went to last night, my current housemate and I managed to muster up three genuine french friends without have pull them off the street.
To make matters Frencher, at the end of this week I shall be moving out of Jonny's spangly riverside appartment and into something altogether dingier, further out and much more french. I'll be living with two french girls called (disappointingly enough for those fans, like me, of sexy french names like Aurélie or Aurianne) Sophie and Claire.
They're both really nice but I've recently found out (had she been hiding it up until I signed the dotted line?!) that Claire is a heavily involved Christian. No problem with that of course, but I hope my lifestyle of sin and idleness doesn't upset her too much.
Maybe by the next time I write in this blog, I'll be redeemed, chaste and bound for the kingdom of heaven.
Or, much less feasibly, maybe I'll be in work.
Much remains to be seen.
Your newly re-juiced french correspondant,
Rob
Monday, November 27, 2006
Thursday, November 23, 2006
A man loses patience
What is the eventual fate of the universe? What happens to a body which is continously becoming more and more disordered according to the tirelessly destructive 2nd law of thermodynamics which states that any action that takes places in a universe which obeys the observable laws of physics can only create more disorder than it can order. This means that if something happens to bring form and order to a group of particles somewhere in the universe, the energy that was required to perform such a task will have come from a correspondingly disordering event. The overall sum of these two events always comes out negative. Whatever one does, disorder in the universe increases. So we can ask ourselves what the prospects are for such a universe. Not great.
What if the body that is in a constant state of increasing disorder was something closer to home; more personal?
What if that body were me, for example? What is the eventual outcome for a young man with no job who with every action he performs (paying for an hour's internet usage is an example) brings closer some kind of ultimate disorder. Some kind of endgame.
This sounds strange but I genuinely want to know.
My creditors are mounting up and the means with which I could potentially pay them back are whittling rapidly away. I owe my current housemate 700 euro for rent, I owe the landlord of my future housemates 550 euro for a deposit and I owe the pizzeria where I recently lost my job 7 euro 20 for an apparently underfunded till one shift.
Let me give you an example of what it is like looking for a job here:
I discover one night that Bar Basque, a hip student-frequented bar in the centre of town is looking for a barman. I speak that night with the direction who confirm this and ask me for a CV. I take in the CV the next day. The man says he'll call me in the week to organise an try-out. All is good.
8 days later and I have heard nothing. My french friends tell me I should go in and hassle them. I do this and the direction is not there. The barman tells me to come back in three days time. I wait three days.
I manage to see the direction and he tells me that yes, they are still looking, and can I do an try-out in... oooh, lets see... 9 days time. I'm frustrated but don't want to appear desperate so I agree. We exchange phone numbers and he tells me he'll call me if anything changes.
9 days later is today. I'm half an hour early for the try-out and I'm excited and a little scared. A quick preliminary chat with the direction is what I need to calm my nerves. 8 seconds in to this chat, the direction tells me that they hired someone on saturday and that they have a full team now. He apologises for having forgot to call me. Having had to pretend to be sorry many times, I recognise the signs.
I almost cry. Fortunately I know that if you speak slowly and in a measured manner you are less likely to do that thing when you voice cracks and suddenly you're crying and I talk slowly and calmly. I tell him that it's understandable that he forgot to call me; he's busy. I tell him it's not serious. I leave in a daze.
It might sound stupid to get so worked up about a job in a bar but it's just SO FUCKING TYPICAL of my experience here. I just can't fucking get anyone to take me seriously. And I'm serious: what happens to me when I inevitably run out of money. I've drained the not inconsiderable savings I amounted when I was in my old (real) job and I'm starting to run seriously out of resources. It almost makes me want to say that I just want to be in England where not absolutely everything turns to shit the instant your back is turned.
But I won't say that. That's not what I'm saying. I don't really know what I am saying for the moment. Just that when I add up all the politeness and friendly smiles I've had from potential employers here over the past two and a half months of almost constant searching, I'd happily trade it all in for one single honest yes or no.
Ok that's plenty of ranting for now. I'll leave you to get on with your lives in the peaceful tranquility of knowing that whatever your problems may be and however unjust your world appears, you know that there is someone, somewhere who's a thousand kilometres from home and is utterly failing to make, find or even visualise his fortune. A man who feels like he's learned the meaning of failure. A man who has spent months banging his head against a door, happily patiently and politely waiting for it to open only to discover that it's not a door at all - it's a brick wall.
Your faithful correspondant,
Rob
What if the body that is in a constant state of increasing disorder was something closer to home; more personal?
What if that body were me, for example? What is the eventual outcome for a young man with no job who with every action he performs (paying for an hour's internet usage is an example) brings closer some kind of ultimate disorder. Some kind of endgame.
This sounds strange but I genuinely want to know.
My creditors are mounting up and the means with which I could potentially pay them back are whittling rapidly away. I owe my current housemate 700 euro for rent, I owe the landlord of my future housemates 550 euro for a deposit and I owe the pizzeria where I recently lost my job 7 euro 20 for an apparently underfunded till one shift.
Let me give you an example of what it is like looking for a job here:
I discover one night that Bar Basque, a hip student-frequented bar in the centre of town is looking for a barman. I speak that night with the direction who confirm this and ask me for a CV. I take in the CV the next day. The man says he'll call me in the week to organise an try-out. All is good.
8 days later and I have heard nothing. My french friends tell me I should go in and hassle them. I do this and the direction is not there. The barman tells me to come back in three days time. I wait three days.
I manage to see the direction and he tells me that yes, they are still looking, and can I do an try-out in... oooh, lets see... 9 days time. I'm frustrated but don't want to appear desperate so I agree. We exchange phone numbers and he tells me he'll call me if anything changes.
9 days later is today. I'm half an hour early for the try-out and I'm excited and a little scared. A quick preliminary chat with the direction is what I need to calm my nerves. 8 seconds in to this chat, the direction tells me that they hired someone on saturday and that they have a full team now. He apologises for having forgot to call me. Having had to pretend to be sorry many times, I recognise the signs.
I almost cry. Fortunately I know that if you speak slowly and in a measured manner you are less likely to do that thing when you voice cracks and suddenly you're crying and I talk slowly and calmly. I tell him that it's understandable that he forgot to call me; he's busy. I tell him it's not serious. I leave in a daze.
It might sound stupid to get so worked up about a job in a bar but it's just SO FUCKING TYPICAL of my experience here. I just can't fucking get anyone to take me seriously. And I'm serious: what happens to me when I inevitably run out of money. I've drained the not inconsiderable savings I amounted when I was in my old (real) job and I'm starting to run seriously out of resources. It almost makes me want to say that I just want to be in England where not absolutely everything turns to shit the instant your back is turned.
But I won't say that. That's not what I'm saying. I don't really know what I am saying for the moment. Just that when I add up all the politeness and friendly smiles I've had from potential employers here over the past two and a half months of almost constant searching, I'd happily trade it all in for one single honest yes or no.
Ok that's plenty of ranting for now. I'll leave you to get on with your lives in the peaceful tranquility of knowing that whatever your problems may be and however unjust your world appears, you know that there is someone, somewhere who's a thousand kilometres from home and is utterly failing to make, find or even visualise his fortune. A man who feels like he's learned the meaning of failure. A man who has spent months banging his head against a door, happily patiently and politely waiting for it to open only to discover that it's not a door at all - it's a brick wall.
Your faithful correspondant,
Rob
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