actuality.log

Nuzzling into this soft orange couch with my warm glass of cocoa this lazy Friday afternoon, I look around to see a nearly-deserted research facility. The clear glass walls and brilliant sunlight spotlight the lonely chairs and abandoned computers. Out of habit, I casually glance at my watch and that’s when it becomes apparent what is remarkable about this serene picture: It’s just past 1 in the afternoon, and everyone’s gone for the day.

There are a slew of things about life here that put it in stark contrast with that in the U.S., but it is this that I find most striking: The work-life balance in this part of the world leans rather heavily toward life.

Which is nice.

Greetings all from (now) ever-sunny Oslo!

Things have been remarkably pleasant so far. Most of my time (it’s really only been a little over a day now) has been spent sorting out basic things like immigration procedures, but it’s been worth it, for the most important part of my journey is already complete: I received a two-year visa to travel nearly anywhere in Europe!

People around have been helpful and friendly, and quite surprisingly, just about everyone speaks English (albeit sometimes hard to comprehend). Much of what I’ve gotten to see is just as it’s described in the travel books and shows about this place—this is a country with a lot of natural beauty, and the sun barely sets in the summer. People seem to be so excited by the warmth and sunlight, they’re all out dancing and partying, or just chilling or whatever soaking it all in.

Sadly though, my work involves sitting down quietly in a lab. But it’s not so bad, the facility is rather impressive, the people nice and smart, and my office has huge windows with a gorgeous view of the fjords.

I think I’ll stop now, because my laptop’s battery is running out of charge. Being the genius that I am, I forgot to bring a converter along that would’ve allowed me to plug in its American charger into a European socket.

Doh!

I’m nearly done packing my bags. They’re heavy and uncouth, snickering at me knowing how much bother they’re going to cause me in my journey.

But I’ll show them, I hope.

(I’ve retrogressed in the past 6 years, haven’t I?)

Condensing your life’s possessions down to two small suitcases is quite a daunting task, but that’s a task I have in front of me. In just over a week (Monday the 23^rd), I’ll be leaving this country (for good?) hoping to pursue a more gratifying life in Europe. My journey first takes me to Oslo (which I’ve just realised is one of the most expensive places in the world to live in, eek!), and how soon I’ll move onto greener pastures, be it Cambridge or anywhere else is anyone’s guess.

Organisationally though, even leaving aside the painfully-selective packing, there is much left to do; like actually winding down life here. Just a short while ago, I sat down and made my first semi-serious list of some major things that need to be done, though I honestly don’t know where to begin. I’m beginning to get really really nervous about all of this, and it’s tending to have a paralytic effect on me.

All of this seemed cool and exciting when I was first looking into Europe in earnest. It felt novel, I felt almost original, for deviating quite strongly from the path well worn. Now I just don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, and the anxiety is taking its toll.

It’s been a while. I’m uncertain as to whether I can even do this anymore, but there is news to share: I just nervously booked my tickets to Oslo!

I intend on leaving here on the 23rd of June, and arriving there the afternoon of the 24th. I haven’t applied for a visa yet (plan on doing so shortly) but I received word from the consulate that I’ve already jumped through all the major hoops, and there is little reason to worry about it being denied.

I’ve been busy sorting out a few things over these past busy (silent) days, and I now have travel insurance, a temporary apartment for when I get there, a fancy new computer for when I begin work, … .

But I am yet to sort out other major things, like cleanly winding up the show in this country. I think I’m stalling because I am still uncertain whether this is the right move for my life, but when am I ever?

A starving scientist marrying a starving artist doesn’t make much business sense. It makes good economic-compatibility sense, but not so much business sense.

Hmm.

Like I was saying, I’ve resumed working at the uni over these past weeks. And by “work,” I mean futz around with math and stuff.

But, as amusing as it is, I hope that the European travel bureaucracy gets sorted out soon.

It’s strange how things worked out, but almost as if it were planned, my extremely annoying and painful sore throat and cold cleared completely for the few days of my recent trip to L.A. But sadly for you, I promptly reverted to my unwell self on returning home, resulting in such a delayed update.

(Kinda like the temporary parting of the seas to allow divine beings to cross. Except, there weren’t any divine beings involved here, nor were there any seas to cross.)

I’m so glad (and quite proud, actually) that I decided to go through with my trip. The entire experience was a blast and threw me so much out of my element, it was exactly what I yearned to feel. While things were rather hectic, and with my inexperience frequently coming to fore, taxing, and sometimes even terrifying (I don’t recall ever being yelled at like this since I was in third grade), I got to hang out with a bunch of people whose lives are completely different from my own, opening my eyes to perspectives so very different from mine; which is exactly why I took the trip.

The entire “training” over these few days revolved around hammering home a couple of crucial ideas:

1. Ensure you have a clear concept in mind before rushing to set up a shot.
2. You’re responsible for everything in your shot’s frame, so be very aware of what’s in it, and why.

These instructions seem pretty basic, but with the whole environment frequently deteriorating to something of a chaotic scene from a high-pressure creative-competition-based reality show (Top Chef, Project Runway), they were easy to forget. From the oafs nearly starting fires and nearly breaking furniture, to the big wigs and drama queens needing everything to go precisely “the one true way” or you surely got what was coming, to the 30-few year old women huddled on the floor crying after being lambasted for deviating from “the one true way,” the whole place was a circus. An entertaining, magical circus where you actually caught a glimpse of the pressures involved in being a professional photographer—and picked up lessons on handling it.

I’ve lived in various parts of the world and travelled to numerous others. Ever since just coming here to study, I’ve been to over a third of the states in this union. But never have I been nervous about an actual trip. Even when I’ve hopped onto planes to give talks to hostile audiences hundreds strong, I’ve never been fazed—I just let my oversize ego help me plough right through.

But this time, it was different.

I was petrified before I left home, wanting instead to just curl up in my room. I kept asking myself how I’d managed to get myself into this mess as I was heading to the airport. I was so nervous, I actually managed to screw up my check-in process at the automated counter (three times!). All the while, even now as I sit in this plane, I’m just looking for a chance to retreat and head home.

What if I suck? What if I don’t learn anything? What if I crash and burn as I stammer repeatedly in front of a model-type? What if everyone else at the studio is super-professional, and I’m laughed off has a hack?

So many doubts; I just hope I’m strong enough to follow this through.

My fingers are refusing to type this; they’ve been numbed by the cold outside.

But I had to go out. I had to get away. Sitting at my desk was becoming too claustrophobic. It was as if the words on the screen before me were crawling out to smother me.

I seem to have blacked out the specific words I saw, but whatever they were, I heard them exclaim: “Leisure? You don’t have a right to leisure!”

When I formally concluded my graduate studies at the end of last year, I’d reached a crossroads in my life. So much of the past half decade of my existence had been devoted to the creation and completion of that one humongous document, I conveniently opted to ignore just about everything else. I hadn’t even contemplated the basic question of what I intended on doing thereafter, now that this chapter of my life was drawing to a close.

Thankfully, come new year’s eve, it dawned upon me that it’s better late than never, and I ought to pause now to think about things; to seriously contemplate the state of my existence, and search for where I was going with my life.

And I did. It’s what I’ve been doing for these past few months.

This period has been good for me. It hasn’t been particularly exciting or eventful, but I have a better idea of what I want: I want to be free. I want to be under the radar, not bound my society’s expectations. I don’t want commitment and I don’t want to be tied down by responsibility.

I want to read, to write, to express. I want to shoot pictures and sing in the rain. I want to spend my evenings at a smoky night-club under a Parisian cafe, reciting poetry, passionately debating the iniquity of a purely Neo-Marxist society with my beret’d friends.

It doesn’t matter if my activities can sustain me, or help me save toward a down-payment of a home, or impress a gold-digger enough for her to spend the rest of her life with me, or pay college tuition for the kids we’d likely have.

No, I just want leisure. That’s all I want—I want the time and space to pursue whatever I fancy.

And that’s why I stepped out into the cold. I had to get away.

I’d just learnt that as an international student here, it was new U.S. policy that one can’t amble along unemployed for too long after graduation; they have to do something with their lives. And since I can’t yet put my finger on what my something is, the next moment I did the only thing I know how—I returned to working at the uni; to spend even more time confined in a window-less cubicle.

Because somehow, it’s this that makes me a desired and productive member of society.

I awoke last night in a cold sweat.

Actually, I awoke once many nights ago but I’ve just been too lazy to write about it. In fact, I wasn’t even in a cold sweat at the time—I just threw that in there for effect.

Like I was saying…

I awoke in a panic late last night, extremely conscious of my own singleness. After unsuccessfully racking my brain for the thoughts that concluded in my anxiety attack, I promptly shifted my focus to how I was going to remedy my situation.

And that’s when it started: I began cataloguing the list of people in my life I’ve genuinely been attracted to (at one point or another).

Now, I don’t have a really clear idea how that intellectual exercise helped me, but I’m now desperate to know from them the answer to the obvious question: “Are you married/betrothed/taken… or aren’t you?” And so, I’ve decided to take the bold step of just asking them. I intend on doing this via e-mail because that makes it all cold and impersonal, just ripe for this sort of occasion.

I think it’s going to read something like this:

Dear Admiree,

I’ve always had a bit of a crush on you, but never the guts to tell you so.

Hoping I’m not too late,
Me

Of course, there are some shady aspects to this plan. In particular:

1. I intend on sending this same letter to about three different women.
2. In every instance, I’d be utterly devastated if I were to find out they’ve moved-on with their lives and want to have nothing to do with me. And this is where I believe my great plan falls apart.

In any event, I think the reason I’m bringing this up here is because I want to run it by you first. Just what would you do if something like this arrived at your doorstep?

I just did something exciting that I have to share. But before I get to it, I’d like to set the scene.

These past few days have been tremendously productive for me, marked by events such as the completion of my taxes (for the first time ever before April 15!). It was in this energetic frame of mind that I embarked on the mountain of paperwork due toward my European expedition, only to find out shortly thereafter that the entire ordeal is going to take a couple of months.

My rational side was almost expecting me to be disheartened by this news, but my actual response was quite the opposite. Suddenly, two months seemed just ripe to bring to fruition all the things I’ve always wanted to see and do in this country—but just haven’t gotten around to. Besides, given that my entire life savings is worth about € 6 (and falling!), it only makes sense that I spend it all here.

One of these things I’ve always wanted to do was to work with an experienced photographer. I would love to be more confident and comfortable around people, especially when I am trying to capture a moment or emotion on my camera, and somehow I feel that observing a professional at work and seeing how they interact with their subjects will benefit me profoundly.

With this in mind, I spent a few hours trawling through the Internet looking for opportunities in April, and after quite some thought, I narrowed my options down to a few. Unfortunately, the workshop on the top of my list was booked-full months prior, but I did something I usually wouldn’t have—I sent an e-mail to the photographer asking him to inform me if there was a happenstance cancellation and an opening cropped up.

Moments later, I got a reply telling me there just had been, and I’d been lucky enough to e-mail him before this information reached his web site. Before I was in though, I had to send him a few photographs of mine for evaluation. I hastily prepped a few of my current favourites and mailed it across, and now that I’ve been approved (and I’ve parted with a lot of money), I’m heading out to his studio in L.A. for a few days in April to learn about and work on portraiture.

In spite of the fact that L.A. is a pretty fucked-up city, I am excited by this turn of events.

Now, onto planning other things on my life’s to-do list.

It seems that these past few months have satiated my yearning for wallowing in my own misery and indulging in my self-defeat, and I am now finally ready to move on with my life.

As I sit here writing this, I’m awaiting a contract from a European research laboratory; one which I’m supposed to peruse and, if I approve, sign. After going back and forth on this for weeks, I’ve finally decided to revert to my original decision of exploring opportunities in Europe. The resolution of this matter fills me with an immediate calm, replacing much of the angst that arrested me before.

Let me outline the plan for you since you must be curious. (You’re here, aren’t you?)

I’m going to be employed by a Norwegian research group situated in Oslo. I’m also going to be working with a professor in Cambridge. This will involve some shuttling between Norway and England, and I’m now working on some paperwork (for the necessary work permits and visas and such) to get the ball rolling. Independent of this, I’ve got a conference to attend in Venice in June–July, so at the very least, I ought to have lived in/visited three European countries between now and early next year!

Have I made the “right decision?” I sure as hell don’t know. But I do know that the big breakthrough in my turbulent decision-making process came with the following simple realisation: This is just a job. It pays very well and if I enjoy myself, great! If things don’t work out the way I would like them to, I can surely move onto other things later.

Nothing is set in stone.

I wonder why people ask you how you are when they aren’t really interested in an honest answer. Perhaps it’s just a means of initiating casual conversation, but even I can think of a dozen other ways of achieving that without creating an opportunity to open up that can of worms. Whatever their rationale though, I wish people would ponder for an instant whether they’re ready for an actual answer before they fire that question my way—I’m sick and tired of having to argue my case.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise to regular readers, but I almost revel in my perennial state of misery. By design and circumstance, being miserable is what I perceive as normalcy—it’s a fundamental part of who I am. Judging from the way I only want what I can’t have, and drop things the instant they come within my grasp, it’s almost as if I were striving to maintain my misery.

This however is exactly the sort of thing that’s too complicated to explain when confronted by someone’s casual “How are you?” Just what am I supposed to say to that? I’m miserable as usual? I’m miserable and wretched as expected, but I am perfectly fine with that? I’m sure you don’t want to know?

What?

Like I was saying, colour has been on my mind a lot lately.