Field Notes - 2.2022
TO WHOM THIS MAY CONCERN:
TO ALL PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE MANIFESTATIONS OF MYSELF:
TO YOU LOYAL READERS, WHO DARE TO NAVIGATE THE DEPTHS OF HEAVEN, HELL, AND EVERYTHING IN BETWEEN, ALL WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THIS DIGITAL WASTELAND:
Today, I bear no gifts for you. No stream of consciousness, no short fiction, no great American novel. My mind has been wandering off the beaten path lately, running away like an unleashed bloodhound. I’ve been chasing the damned thing around the neighborhood with a piece of bologna, fresh from the local deli. Creeping through neighbor’s yards. Slipping through the gaps in between houses and white picket fences. Overturning every stone and hacking through every ornamental shrub that dares to stand between me and my destiny.
Yet the hound persists in his mission. He is a one-track mind, a killer unshackled from the confines of the four walls, and he will not stop until every rabbit in the housing development has been brutally murdered. And he will be forgiven for his heinous crimes against the animal kingdom. I know he will come back someday soon – a loyal dog always returns to his master. But for now, I must let him go about his business. It is what feels right in the moment.
So instead, I will offer you these field notes. This post will make no sense on the surface. In fact, it will likely not make sense at all, no matter which way you slice it. I suspect this is what the productivity hacks call journaling. Sitting at my desk and typing whatever comes to mind while I slack off at my real job. No real focus. No writing rituals. No clearing of the mind.
Consider this post an elaborate note to oneself. A reminder to keep marching forward. A portal between past ramblings and future ramblings. Perhaps the field notes will evolve into a recurring installment. A monthly recap of my thoughts, observations, experiences, feelings, shortcomings, triumphs, defeats, heartbreaks, blow-ups, and anything else that happens to my broken soul over the course of 30 days. All conveniently delivered to your inbox upon the monthly closing of the books.
Or perhaps I will delete this post. Scrap the entire idea like a Honda Civic that got wrapped around a telephone pole after the poor driver had one too many Bud Lights at the dive bar. Erase it from your memories like I’m fighting aliens in a black and white suit alongside Tommy Lee Jones. I have no idea what I want to do with it yet. For now, it will remain.
Either way, there is much to be said, and the field notes are a reminder of that fact. I still need to talk about passions and punk rock. I still need to tell stories about inspiration and desperation. There are real life conversations that need transcribed. Scribblings from notebooks that need brought to life. Italian women that need convinced to let me tag along with them on her next trip to her parent’s condo in Fort Lauderdale. Microbiology students who need to swipe me into the library on campus so I can hang out and read old books and daydream.
Because as a field operator, that is my duty. Field operators must fully submerse themselves in the sea of life. They cannot be afraid to swim with the sharks and jellyfish. They must become one with the vibrant coral reefs and flourishing marine wildlife. Marvel at the wonders of deep-sea trenches and underwater kelp forests.
I may not possess the technical prowess to compose long, well-thought-out, logically sound essays on the big topics in life. I strive to one day be able to tackle the likes of philosophy, religion, economics, physics, history, and whatever subject may pique my interest for writing prompts. But I still must publish something. So, for now, I might as well say what I feel.
Besides, what’s the point of language if you don’t say what you feel?
(I shamelessly stole the last sentence from the song Doses and Mimosas, which is undoubtedly the best pop song of the last decade)
Please be nice to corporate recruiters. Especially the ones doing phone screens. I already tweeted about this, but I will reiterate the point here. Flirt with them if you must. Even if she sounds like a Moldovan shotputter named Helga who drinks a mixture of the blood of weak men and gas station vodka for breakfast (this is how you make a real Bloody Mary).
Of all the poor souls perpetually trapped in the corporate machine, recruiters consistently go through the thickest stream of bullshit on a weekly basis. They are sick and tired of hearing every single financial analyst candidate talk about their above average Excel skills and ability to point out gross profit on an income statement. Instead of talking about vlookups, maybe you should actually look up her alma mater and location. Ask her about the weather in her city. See if she has any pets. Laugh at the terrible attempts at humor. This sounds unbelievably contradictory, but refuse the urge to talk about yourself, beyond the bare minimum required. Unless you absolutely bomb the initial phone screen, you are almost guaranteed an actual interview, barring something catastrophic happening.
But if you make a positive impression and stand out to her, she will give you insider tips for the next interview. You will know exactly what questions the hiring manager is going to ask. She will even tell you the exact questions to ask, and what information to research prior to the interview. She might even text you and send you emojis. Who knows. Just speculating here.
They say if you should shoot for the moon, because even if you miss, you’ll land amongst the stars. But did they ever consider the fact that you might not even make it out of the atmosphere at all? That the rocket might disintegrate in thin air on the ascent? Or maybe the spacecraft won’t even make it off the landing pad.
I don’t know. Who cares. Stay tuned.