Skip to main content

Why i hate writing my diss

Because writing the dissertation is turning me into more and more of a stranger withdrawn from many things. It was far better when I was doing fieldwork. At least then I was a stranger among people and things, everyday I learned something new, and by the end of it I was less of a stranger. Now I am a stranger again, and it worsens everyday.

Because it makes me feel like my world has shrunken to a pressure chamber the space of a desk, filled with thousands of pages of pulp piled up on top of each other.

Because it causes me so much anxiety that anything else is better, even babysitting my daughter's tamagochi.

Because it doesn't feel real anymore.

Because it's worst than the Roman Catholic Church. I can't go anywhere or do anything without having guilty thoughts about it.

Because when people ask me about it I make involuntary, incoherent noises, and I don't mean that as a metaphor for academic jargon.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Good mother, good academic?

I wrote this four years ago. The struggle remains the same, so yes, publish. And god, I so want to be over this dilemma. 2016. Yesterday I was proofreading my manuscript at home when the Little Big Boss came over crying. I had to put my pen down and console her. She didn't want to leave my lap so we compromised. We put her play doh on the table and I tried to work while she played. It went smoothly -- for about five minutes! Haha! The Artist in Residence is familiar with this scene. Starting when she was eight years old, she had to come along with me to academic conferences. She'd stay in her chair reading, or drawing and writing in her notebooks. People praised her and commented on how she was remarkably well-behaved. I had no idea just how remarkable her ability to sit still and focus was, until the Little Big Boss came along. With this one, sitting together quietly for a stretch of time is a much bigger challenge. The things that kept the Artist content at conference...

Lola of Maipon

It's all too easy to fall asleep under the blanket of everyday life and to smother dreams with the mundane things I surround myself with. But once in a while, along comes a sparkling vision that jolts me out of my daily sleep and reminds me of the existence of convictions and worlds so different from my own. "Our beloved LOLA of Guinubatan, Maipon, Albay is the last true messenger of God. So, let us follow her holy teachings so that we will gain TRUE SALVATION without sufferings and without death." In another story I, the intrepid heroine, the adventurer seduced by mysteries, the pilgrim in search of truth, would follow them back to Guinubatan from Session Road, thirsting to see and hear their Lola for myself. However, it's all too easy -- much safer! -- to fall back asleep under the blanket of everyday life, and to smother dreams with the mundane things I surround myself with. Then along comes 9 a.m., and really, it's time to down the dregs of coffee at the bott...

Mambunongs, Mumbakis, and National Artists

In today's Sunday Inquirer Magazine. It is early morning of February 26, 2009. Felipe Cornelio motions to National Artist Ben Cabrera to be seated. This man in leather shoes, jeans, collared shirt, and baseball cap is a mambunong, or an Ibaloy ritual specialist – a shaman, if you will. He looks up to the sky and back down to the hefty, black, native pig hog-tied at his feet and in a soft, almost inaudible chant, he lets the spirits of the land know that Bencab, who has built his house upon this land, is making this offering to them and he invites them to join the feast. In the same breath he also calls upon Jesus Christ to bless this sacrifice. The mambunong steps back as his assistants drive a wooden stake into the pig’s heart. The spirits will surely hear the pig’s cries, and they will come to grace the occasion. The mambunong pours tapuy, or rice beer into a glass, chants over it quietly, again addressing the spirits of the land and Jesus, and hands the glass to Bencab, motionin...