Random thoughts on my academic preparation.

I'm much happier working in the resthome where I'm at, and not being walking on eggshells among the corrupt and malfeasant in academia, while investing 80-hour workweeks over years for no money and no certain career or even a certain offramp where you can make ends meet as you try to transition out and transition into a more stable career.

But, the other day I was thinking about all the languages I know, and how many hours I'd spent putting into learning Greek and Latin and Hebrew and whatnot.

So many hours, over simply years and years; the courses, and the summer courses, and the mornings at my kitchen table a few times a week, with texts and language aides and study cards that I'd make up.

I enjoyed it and I'm glad I did it, but it's simply odd, that it's not being used somehow.

I honestly have these file folders with texts of Eusebius and Origen that I'd read in the original, on something vaguely related to my research interest but more just something I was interested in in order to help me master the language.

It's so strange, that it's just locked away in there.

Maybe one day I'll go back.  If I ever turn my dissertation into a pop book, the project after the next project after that will involve the languages, "should I live so long."

It's not obvious any more that I'll have the ability to get around to those projects, though I more probably will if I lose my campaign, since I can see how my resthome job dovetails nicely with long days off at home where I sit and rest up and read and write.

In a way, it's the academy's loss, that they don't have a home for a competent person of good will.  Just sad.

A (foreign) coworker's observation on one resthome resident.

One (foreign) coworker was saying that she thinks this one resthome resident with mid-stage dementia can be really obstinate, since he had been very controlling of his wife in his marriage.

"People here knew him and his wife, they say he always told her what to do," she was like. "He is the same way with us, he is used to being in charge."

"I didn't realize that," I was like, since he has pictures of her everywhere in his room, and it had seemed like a happy marriage.

One day when I was in his room with him, too, he led me over to his bureau to show me some pictures on top of himself in World War II, and I pointed to a picture of his wife as a young bride.

At that, he looked over there and smiled, and blew a kiss towards her picture and waved at it.

Life is complicated.

The Secret Lives of Constituents: Public parks.

The other week when I was finishing up gathering signatures to go get on the ballot, I was walking back to my bike and stopped to talk to a (middle-aged) (white) guy out on his porch who I had talked to earlier that day, and then I met a(n older) (white) woman walking her dog who I got to sign my petition, and then I finally walked back up to my bike, and there across the street in a park was another (older) (white) woman, just out there standing in the middle of the park with two little dogs and looking at her phone.

So, I started walking over and called out to her from a distance so as not to spook her, and she looked up and said hi, and then she said we had met a while ago when I was out knocking doors in another part of the neighborhood.

Then, I got closer and recognized her, and I said I was gathering signatures to get on the ballot now, and she agreed to sign my petition.

And, after that was done, she laughed at herself, and she said she'd been out there for an hour just staring at her phone and playing Pokemon Go, while her husband thinks she's out just walking the dogs.

"He's probably wondering where I am," she was like.

Then, she said that the park was actually a Pokegym, and since it was controlled by Team Red and she's on Team Yellow, she could go there and take on super tough Pokemon.

"Look," she was like, and she showed me her phone, and there was like a huge dragon on there, and something kind of robot-looking.

Then, she started scrolling through her Pokemon.

"I don't even know what all of these are," she was like.  "You have to really know the Pokemon to know their powers, but I just do trial and error, I learned this whole game trial and error."

Then, she fought the one monster more, and it died, and a Vulpix showed up on screen as her reward.

Her first Poke ball didn't catch it, so then she showed me how you could feed it a raspberry and use a stronger ball and you'd probably catch it, and she did.

"Some days I wake up at three in the morning and I turn my phone on, and there's all these Pokemon in my living room, just waiting for me to catch them!", she was like.  "They're not usually there, but they are in the middle of the night."

She then told me that some people told her that the aquarium downtown is a good place to play, but she hasn't had a chance to go down there yet to play.

"This whole thing sounds like a lot of fun," I was like.

"It is!", she was like.  "Just don't start until you're done with your campaign."

Comment of one 97-year old resthome resident...

...when I said bye to her the other night when my shift was coming to an end, and I said I'd see her on Friday:

"Maybe, but at my age, I'm not making any plans."

. . .

Crack of one resident about this past week, with the Supreme Court drama.

This past week, I was leaving work for the night and this one (younger) resthome resident was outside having a smoke, since he's a bit of a nightowl.

It was raining a bit, so I stood outside with him and talked a bit until the rain died down some so I could walk to the subway station, since I had forgotten my umbrella.

Anyhow, we talked for a while about the whole Supreme Court thing, and at some point I made the comment that politics was stressing me out and I just needed a break from it for a little while.

"Well," he was like, "You're not going to get it."

One resthome resident is really ready to die.

One of the resthome residents is really ready to die, and the other week she was in a lot of pain and was talking about it again.

We spoke some, and she said her children understood and were at peace with her wanting that, so I said that was a good thing.

Then, she got very nice and thanked me for being her good friend, and she then gave me a sort of a benediction, and she ended by saying that she hopes that I get everything that I want in life.

So, I thanked her very seriously, then I was like, "And you know what, right now one of the main things that I'm hoping for is what you're hoping for, that death comes for you soon," and I started laughing.

She started laughing, too.

Anyone else, I wouldn't say something like that, but it's true, and we have that vibe where I can say that.

The morbidity of it is kind of ridiculous, though.

Comment of a resthome resident, the other Shabbat.

The resthome residents have a range of observance, from some people who go to services all the time, to others who can't wait to get shrimp and either sneak in take-out or can't wait until they can go out for dinner and order it.

(The kitchen keeps kosher, with separate meat and milk meals.)

Anyhow, if I'm working a Friday evening shift, I always try to wish people "Shabbat shalom" or "Good Shabbos," especially the more observant residents.

So, a few Fridays ago, I was at a table and wished the (older) (well-dressed) (Jewish) ladies "Good Shabbos" in turn, and then as an afterthought I wished the one retired psychiatrist it, as well.

As soon as I did that, he was like, "[My first name], why the f*ck did you say that?  You're not a Jew and I barely am one."

The best part was that he just said that in a normal tone of voice, and there were special guests all around and everyone was all dressed up, and there was table clothes and everyone was waiting for the candles to be lit.

Later, too, after dinner, I was helping him to transfer back into his wheelchair, and he was like, "Good Shabbos, motherf*cker."

. . .