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Consider this my first, formal-ish entry into something that I've been doing somewhat informally.

In an attempt to force myself to take my lunch breaks, I'm going to try and blog as many weekdays as I can and post quick thoughts during my lunch break.

My constraints: 
  • The post has to be made during my lunch break. Lately I've been trying to take breaks between 1-2pm, but the post itself has to be made during the time I have set aside for not working.
  • The post has to be written in 30 minutes. This is a creative challenge; I don't want to get bogged down too much in editing — I have the rest of my professional and creative life to self-flaggelate with editing.
  • There are no constraints on subject matter. However, the post should try to come to focus on/make a single point. While I like my stream-of-consciousness, I feel like my consciousness could be a little more honed, you know? 
Some goals: 
  • Write 100 such entries in the rest of this calendar year.
  • To take breaks from work doing something I know I love.
Here's to some future lunch notes!
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A phrase that I've been repeating to myself lately is: "It doesn't have to be this way." And I feel like I say it for a lot of different things. The university system I'm in for my PhD doesn't have to be as austere has it's been for spending on students (and definitely doesn't have to spend as much as it does on admin). The work I do doesn't have to feel overwhelming; I don't have to do all the things all the time, and all right now.

Even my own negative self-talk has been getting reexamined: I don't have to be as harsh to myself and view my actions with the most uncharitable reading. Being realistic about who I am and what I'm doing means also recognizing when I do good things too, or recognizing when things I do are neither good nor bad. (And I don't have to use such stark binary categories anyway when it comes to my life and my actions!)

This particular wave of having "It doesn't have to be this way" be my mantra is somewhat inspired by my reading The Ethical Slut by Janet W. Hardy and Dossie Easton. Though I've been poly for a long time (my user name is a chemistry-inspired play on the word "polyamory"), I hadn't read this particular book. I'm glad I'm reading it when I am, though; it feels like a refreshing review, a reminder of all the good things that I've experienced as a polyamorous person. 

Chief among these good experiences is realizing that the set of givens I am working with as a citizen of the U.S. who is a cisgender, bisexual woman of color doesn't aren't immutable divine mandates. I can choose a life outside of the norm. It doesn't have to be that deep (but it's totally fine, and probably better in the long run, if it is). Permanent monogamy doesn't have to be the endgame. The life I choose doesn't have to look like anyone else's. 

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It's been several months since the last time I posted a lunch note and I really have no excuse except, well, there's a lot going on. I won't go on about this long gap between posting; this whole endeavor was meant to be a personal challenge anyway. 

Recently, though, I have been thinking about Timothy Snyder's On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century, especially about lesson #14: Establish a private life. And I was thinking about this lesson in contrast to "A.I." (though many of my friends prefer to use the term "Large Language Model" or LLM instead of capitulating to the marketing), and how A.I./LLMs cannot establish a private life for you. Just based on what I know of how these apps are run (how it takes data for its training, and how it gives it up based on how it's prompted), it is diametrically opposed to establishing a private life. 

And when I think about each of the lessons from Timothy Snyder's On Tyranny, I'm starting to think that LLMs, as they're commercially available now, can't follow any of these lessons. It can't make eye contact and small talk. It can't meaningfully defend institutions. It can't be kind to our language. And so on. Furthermore, humans using these technologies thoughtlessly also cannot effectively fight fascism. The tools, as they exist, are flawed in fundamental ways. 

There's probably more that I can say, and this might be the bee in my bonnet for the next several lunch notes. But this might be the heart of why I'm so against A.I./LLMs as they exist and are available (and pushed) to me right now; this tool cannot kill fascists.
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My PhD advisor shared an imaginative exercise with us during class once: Imagine what you want writers you admire to say about your work. Write those words down. Put them up where you can see them and remind yourself of them.

I haven't quite done the last part of writing them down and then posting them in places where I can see them. There is some part of me that is a little skeptical about such reminders. I don't know if such simple acts are enough to get me to do the things I need to do in order to write what I want to write. It's a little silly, maybe, but there is some part of me that thinks that if I really want to write something, then I'll feel intrinsically motivated to do so.

Of course, I also know enough to know that motivation is hardly ever so clean. I know enough that intrinsic motivation is among the hardest things to do.

What I might try to do is to make such reminders into art that I can hang up. I recently had a minor disaster in my office: the felt pads that I've put up as a kind of bulletin board have started falling off because I kept repositioning them too much, so the sticky pads have stopped being sticky. It got so annoying to put them over and over that I took them down, and so now I have a blank wall. I'm planning on putting them back up soon, but in the meantime I'm thinking about what else to put on that board. What other reminders do I want? What other things do I want to highlight for myself? What will get me to do things, and not just sit around waiting for motivation?

I guess I'll see. The first step, is to figure out a way to get them to not fall off again.
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I have been trying to get to a point where things feel a little less like I'm under-kneaded bread that gets torn apart when the dough gets stretched. This past weekend was busy, but I also tried to take deep breaths and focus on doing one thing at a time.

It's not easy pulling myself back from the brink sometimes. On Saturday, I was so tired that I kept making little mistakes, and it all just sort of piled on and made everything feel much bigger than it was. But I also got to a point where I felt like I was too tired to go to sleep, which begins its own vicious cycle of bad thoughts and a lack of rest.

Eventually I made myself a little sign that says, "Don't go crazy. Just go to sleep." It's silly, maybe, but it's a little reminder that the catastrophes I build up in my head are not really catastrophes. And that the moment I recognize that my reaction to things is out of proportion of what's actually in front of me, I should take stock of what my body needs. More often lately, it's been a lack of rest. Sometimes it's in need of food. Sometimes I realize that I haven't been outside in a few days. (The perils of working from home.) Whatever it is, the solution is not to spiral into despair.
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I mentioned a few entries ago that I got COVID recently. It's only my second time, and the first time I got it was three or so years ago, but I remember the feeling of the slow recovery period and the challenges of feeling like I "should" be better much faster than I actually got better. This time is no different: I'm certainly feeling a lot better than I did when I was in the middle of my sickest point, but I am still not "back to normal." I get tired very easily. I sleep too little at night and need to take naps during the day. I'm short of breath. I sometimes get dizzy. Thinking through anything can sometimes feel like trying to think through sludge.

And, as with any event that disrupts my daily routine, I haven't been very good at keeping up with the little things that help me get through the day: habit trackers, daily planning, etc. I've been able to somewhat keep up my bare minimum of writing down a to-do list and using pomodoro timers throughout the day to stay on task. But everything else has been paused for the past few weeks.

Naturally, it's around this time that I start getting antsy to get back in the saddle on all the things I had paused before I got sick.

And, naturally, it's not a good idea for me to do too much all at once. I'm only going to make myself sad that I can't do all the things I was doing before I'm actually ready to do them again.

I know I'm not alone in this. All the former-gifted-kid memes tell me so. But if I need the reminder, then other people might need the reminder too: You're doing fine. You're not behind. And you don't need to do things at the same pace as other people.

And if you're sick, what are you doing on the internet? Get some rest!

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I'm reading through José Rizal's Noli Me Tangere and, as with many older novels, I'm reading through it slowly and writing down passages that I feel like I want to return to. One such passage is this one: 

[The poor] have no novenas, nor do they know the jaculatory prayers or the verses or the oremus the friars have composed to prevent them from developing their own ideas or their own emotions, nor do they understand them. They pray in the language of their misery. Their souls cry for themselves and for the dead whose love belonged to them. Their lips may offer up salutations, but all their minds can do is scream in complaint and screech in lamentation. (p. 90)

And it's a passage that stands out to me because it is a crystallization of many of Rizal's critiques throughout the novel. And these criticisms are felt most acutely by Sisa and her sons, Basilio and Crispín. Sisa is trapped in a loveless, abusive, and neglectful marriage to her husband. Her sons are trapped in servitude to the church, which has a system that is set up to keep them impoverished and indebted in this life forever. While this quotation might paint a bleak picture for the poor, it is a setup to a nuanced view of faith:

You who blessed the poor, and you, shadows in torment, will the simple prayer of the poor make you happy, offered up before a badly engraved print by the light of a timsim? Or do you long for tapers placed before bloody images of Christ or small-mouthed Virgins with glass eyes, or with a priest's mechanical droning of the mass in Latin? (p. 90)

Rizal makes this turn to the second person fairly often. In a way, these shifts to a kind of collective first person or to the second person to bring the reader into the story, to implicate them in the events ("You" who "blessed the poor") is a kind of defining feature of this book, and one of the reasons why, in my opinion, it's an example cited in Benedict Anderson's influential 1983 book Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origins and Spread of Nationalism. Anderson writes of Rizal's sly acknowledgement of his audience, of this shared community who would know exactly the kinds of characters he is writing about in this novel, thus creating the "imagined community" of Filipinos who read the book—specifically those who are affluent and educated enough to read the criticisms of a major institution. That Philippine national identity has coalesced around this book then is also no surprise: it remains (from what I've heard) a part of a shared national curriculum and canon.

Though I've all but left the Catholic church (I don't know if there's a formal process to leave, or if just not going to church anymore counts enough), I am still fascinated by the structure and the spectacle the Church as an institution continues to draw. With the death of Francis and the choosing of a new pope, my hopes are on the Filipino, not just because he's Filipino, but because if this book was part of a present-day Filipino priest's secular education, then it is no wonder that that priest might focus so much on poverty and be amenable to a more expansive view other social issues.

Anyway, what have you done to uplift the poor today?
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As part of today's lunch break, I thought I'd read a bit of news, too, to sort of inform today's lunch post. And this headline stood out to me: "FDA appears to be slow-walking vaccine approvals" by Berkeley Lovelace Jr. and Brandy Zadrozny for NBC News.

Since I got COVID recently and am still recovering (it's going to take weeks for me to get rid of this cough, if past experience is any indication), I wanted to just post a few readings and reactions to this piece as I read through it. 

 
On Saturday, [FDA commissioner] Makary suggested in a post on X that Novavax was seeking approval for a “new” vaccine because the strain used in its trial has since been updated to target a more recent  Covid variant called JN.1.

“Under this administration, we are prioritizing the Gold Standard of Science--not what saves pharma companies ‘tens of millions of dollars,’” Makary said.  

 
A few things I hate about this: 1) That this is a, supposedly, official government position that's being posted on social first, which always feels at least tacky and unprofessional, if not downright foolish, and 2) the rhetoric used sounds anti-corporate, but it's hiding the fact that this kind of (in)action is deeply anti-human.

I know that we've lived in a world for a while where social media seems to be the first line of information dissemination, but that doesn't mean that I have to like it. A social media-forward communications strategy for government agencies and the like feel like they further erode trust, not build up rapport with "ordinary" people. Because that, to me, is always the line for being social media-forward: it's an attempt to meet people where they are.

However, slow-rolling boosters means that people aren't getting the care they need. The anecdotal evidence of my own getting COVID recently is a testament to the fact that it's still around, that we aren't in a "post-pandemic" world, and that vaccines are still necessary to combat its spread. And using all the same buzzwords and turns of phrase that "The Left" likes to use (science, and attacking Big Pharma) is deeply upsetting.

In a written statement, an HHS spokesperson said the Biden administration waived clinical trial requirements for new Covid vaccines “using the COVID pandemic as an eternal justification for blanket approvals.” 

Under Makary, the spokesperson said, trials from four years ago “no longer suffice.”


Again, I just want to reiterate that those clinical trial requirements were waived during the COVID pandemic—and we are still in that pandemic.

Experts also worry that a possible bird flu vaccine for people could be at risk. One of the former officials said the FDA previously planned to use an emergency use authorization pathway in case health officials needed to quickly greenlight a shot, but it’s now unclear whether the Trump administration would do the same.

This, to me, is one of the more alarming things about this administration. I remember that during the election season, many people had lots of criticisms of President Biden's pandemic response, ranging from it being a worse version of Trump's pandemic response in his first term. I remember hearing some buzz that the Biden administration declared the pandemic "over" when it so clearly wasn't.

But I can't imagine that a Democratic administration, Biden or Harris or anyone else, would take basically take away the path to rapid vaccine development and distribution. Based on this (admittedly, one) article, it seems like that is much more of a possibility under Trump 2.

Anyway, those are just some thoughts. COVID is one of those issues that I tend to pay more attention to for a whole host of reasons, and this headline, and the story that followed it, warranted a bit more of my attention.
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Between traveling for a conference and then getting sick after returning from said conference (I tested positive for COVID last week), it's been a while since I've written on this blog. And, in keeping with the typical inconsistent-blogger feeling of this site, the following is true: so much has happened.

In his book Climate Lyricism, Min Hyoung Song reads Frank O'Hara's Lunch Poems through the lens of the "everyday life project" -- an arbitrary, often time-bound, daily action that is a kind of "informal experiments in living and, as such, building material for imagining in as concrete a way as possible how to live differently" (p. 81). O'Hara's Lunch Poems is firmly situated in the American postwar poetry tradition, during a time when the world order has indelibly shifted. Through Song's close reading, one can begin to make connections between these short, vignette-like poems that, through compressed language and imagery, call forth a busy street, and the everyday life projects one might undertake in order to fully face an overwhelming challenge like climate change.

I will confess that I have not read Lunch Poems, only Song's analysis of them through the lens of climate change, but this blog is, in part, inspired by the lyrical observations Song includes in his analysis. I am thinking about these poems, this reading, and the specific time of the American postwar poetic tradition because I spent much of my weekend contemplating just how much the times we're living in feels like a "Factors leading to" section of a history textbook. Living in the moment, in the milieu of news and noise, it can be hard to fully grasp (and, then, once grasped, actually try to process and then do something about) the larger patterns of history. But I have been feeling like my everyday life projects have shifted, and will continue to shift, to acknowledge, for myself in the present and for any future people, what it feels like to live in these times.

Maybe that looks like poems sometimes. Maybe that looks like quick blog posts. Maybe that looks like something different, chronicled in some other way.

But that's what's on my mind during this lunch break. We'll see what this means in the immediate future.

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I have these felt pads (squares of two different shades of green) on my wall that act as a bulletin board and a small bit of sound cushioning, and I recently rearranged them so that they were all on one wall instead of spreading out over two walls. While I liked checkerboard pattern and the paper ephemera I pinned to those boards, especially because it made my video call backgrounds more interesting, I did mess up when I first put them up and posted them so that the line of them slanted downward. Technically the built-in level app on my phone said that the line was straight, but when I actually looked at my video during meetings, I could see them sloping.

So I said, fuck it, I have half an hour before my work day starts. I'll just unpin all the stuff then shift them over (since these pads are, thankfully, fairly easy to reposition). I haven't yet re-pinned all the things yet, but that's what the second half of my lunch break is going to be spent doing.

This is often how I get through my day: I remind myself that a task that I've been dreading doesn't actually take that long, and I just decide to do it in the little time I have left between obligations. Like this lunchtime blogging. Or the reading I do for my degree. Or the tasks I have to do for work. When I have very little motivation to do things, it doesn't help me at all to berate myself for not doing something. But if I tell myself that it'll only take a part of a pomodoro interval to do the thing? That makes it easier.
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As part of my personal celebration of National Poetry Month, I'm reading through a collection of Selected and Last Poems by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by his son Andrew Milosz. Because it's such a thick book, I'm taking my time with it—more so than I, admittedly, usually take with poetry collections.

One of the most powerful poems so far is one titled "Café." The final stanza goes: 

Sometimes when the evening aurora paints the roofs in a poor street
and I contemplate the sky, I see in the white clouds
a table wobbling. The waiter whirls with his tray
and they look at me with a burst of laughter
for I still don't know what it is to die at the hand of man,
they know—they know it well.
 

It is a devastating ending to a poem that begins with the observation that, of "those at the table in the café" whom the speaker of the poem is remembering, the speaker is the one alone who survived. Given the time and place where this poem was written—Warsaw, 1944—it is a devastating, haunting poem about war and the people we lose. The many lives that are cut short due to state violence (whether inter-state or intra-state).

To me, this is a lament for the living, too. Not only is the speaker alive and mourning the people who are lost, but they are imagining the dead as experiencing a kind of joy in the afterlife that is inaccessible to the living. The people at the wobbling table, the waiter, they are laughing at the speaker for being still alive. This isn't out of cruelty, but the speaker is barred from knowing what they know. The speaker, if all goes well, would never know what they know, and that feeling is bittersweet: they don't want to know what it is to die at the hand of man, but not knowing means that there is something that separates them from their friends, even in death.

When I picked up this collection of poems from the library, I was drawn to Milosz because the cover flaps of the connection spoke highly of his commentary on the tumultuous times he lived through: two world wars and the shifting landscape of violence and revolution that followed after. There have been many connections made between the times we're living in and what happened a century prior, but the way that I make those connections, personally, is through creative writing. Reading Milosz's poems is helping me focus my energy as a reader and writer. What did Milosz see and feel a century before? And what can I learn to see through his poems? 

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