When I have a day to do nothing but wait for a call (I guess this is what happens during the job hunt — in place of waiting for calls from boys, you now wait for calls from potential employers), what I do is start somewhere and end up somewhere totally different and end the day full of data.

This is how the day went:

I started the morning by finishing a book I began last night, The Boy in the Striped Pajamas. Since the book is told from the perspective of a young boy whose father runs the concentration camp of Auschwitz, I did a search and subsequently watched this PBS documentary about two men who escaped from the camp. Then I watched this bit on Hulu on traveling in modern-day Poland, since Auschwitz is in Poland. I didn’t know that Poland was so Catholic! Or that Krakow is so pretty; now I want to go there and play chess on a picnic table and bicycle along that lake. At some point I looked up “Oskar Schindler” on Wikipedia — I’ve never seen Schindler’s List, and I didn’t know what Schindler was known for (except, vaguely, saving Jews).

I washed my clothes. I received not a phone call but an email saying my references have been contacted and I should know about the internship once they’ve gotten back to the hiring manager. I folded my clothes.

At A.’s we descended into info-mania once again, discovering a website that tells you the #1 song on your date of birth. Mine, happily and somehow appropriately I feel, is George Michael’s “Faith.” A. had something by Whitney Houston and her friend had Cyndi Lauper. We plugged in several others. (My sister, it hilariously turns out, has Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff.”) When we checked our parents’ results, Youtube returned ancient, crackling, black-and-white and utterly quaint numbers that pre-dated even the recognizable oldies. I mean, really, what? Why is that blonde woman pretending to be Mexican?

Although Youtube proves fascinating. In the course of an hour, we’d scaled decades of popular culture, assigning songs ridiculous and ancient and completely classic to members of our various human herds, and accepting that the cheesiness of the 90s has begun to give that of the 80s a run for its money, as decades are wont to do. Giant flannel shirts and crimped hair and overalls. It invokes as always the ever-timeless What were we thinking? Is it the point in time or the freshness of the idea that makes it ripe for use? What ridiculous thing are we doing now, unable to detect its ridiculousness?

My eyes are heavy but I’ve been on a roll with this writing thing: the dumping of info. Not sure if that’s necessarily good. I wouldn’t call this an organic process. None of these posts strike me as particularly well-written or well-organized, but they exist to point me toward what each day meant, even if on a superficial level. Maybe I’ll develop some improved methods, or put more thought into this. Or maybe it’ll become organic. Maybe it’ll just be a garbage dump of info, like 98% of the internet. A towering garbage heap, ready to swallow us all.

There’s something about the value of focus, which I’ll be able to think of once I stop being entertained, if I stop being entertained.

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