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New year - salvation through organization. I can't find several important documents, have no idea where they are. I never made it through the impossible list of projects over the holidays - not just because I unexpectedly worked several days. I have the notion (probably misguided) that I can get more done if I go back to a nightly schedule of chores, Sunday to Thursday. It has been some years since I did this, and perhaps it need only be for a month or two. Somehow retreating to discipline seems like a step backwards after chaos has served me so well lately.
I tried to make them understand that I need more substance, more accomplishments to match my own. That sharing similar interests is not the single most important thing to me, to finding someone. I don't think they comprehended what I was about. I made a devil's bargain - I'd accept this candidate if they'd ensure that future selections have a broader background. It does seem to me as is if there is little chance of this venture paying off, but at least I will have tried. To do nothing is to simply play the victim of fate, of chance, of life.
I managed to leave the office "on time" today - barely. And I felt a certain triumph when I realized how much I did accomplish. Field Marshall really does seem the most appropriate way to describe what is actually required of me. And while it is rather exhausting right now, and probably next week as well, it is just possible I might be able to bring a certain realignment to the greater whole of the department and management. Even though conflicting reports have reached my years, the two parties involved have not proven exactly reliable in the past in this regard.
I'm directing a ballet - simultaneously directing the orchestra and the stage scenery and backdrops. I am also giving direction to the dancers, an experienced group, but this not quite improv, more like choreography a la George Crumb scores: you have a general direction or theme, a key and rhythmic motif or some notes from which you create the real music. I try to keep the dancers moving while timing the set changes and keeping the orchestra in synch - they're obviously playing a Crumb score. We've never rehearsed but we're playing to a live audience full of critics and potential patrons.
Although I may not have much time for it in the next few months, work on the house may save my sanity. Alone, no questions, with music of choice cranked, I can sing along while I make visible progress, actually complete items.
The ceiling will never look great - unless I choose to put a new coat of joint compound over the whole thing, cover up all the imperfections. There is no arguing that it looks much better now with some scraping, spackling and a new coat of Dove White paint. Being this tired is OK when I can see why.
I love color, especially deep, rich tones - no pastels for me, except certain tones of palest pink and lavender. But it is hard to live with those rich tones on the walls around you. The color on the paint chip looks different than on the walls, especially once it is on the four walls, from floor to ceiling.
I don't like the color that is now on my bedroom walls. Instead of being a mere hint of green, the underlying base for a glazed wash of a darker, sage greyed green, it is mint chocolate chip ice cream green. Ugh.
The first snow. Standing in the bullpen, looking up and seeing it, the first tiny flakes falling. Hurrah! CJC literally body-checked RC to stand right in front of the window for several minutes. That's why I like her!
What it is about the first snowfall that turns some of us into little kids? Even if it is after Christmas. Did we love snow as children? Is it the hope of show days, even as an adult? Is there some deeper mystery to snow? Or is it just something peculiar to those few individuals who can be delighted by simple gifts?
I don't seem to need caffeine in the afternoons anymore. I'm so charged as the kaleidoscope around me keeps circling around, tumbling everything into a new pattern. If I leave on time (meaning early) it is still light out, so I reach the train and have energy to work. But by the time I get home, I take a breath once inside and it is like a balloon deflating. I am sleeping through the night easier, barring any misbehaving cats, and I feel normal again when I get up in the morning, so the work load is acceptable. For now.
I've never been swimming in the ocean in a storm but I imagine that I've been doing that metaphorically the last week. Waves keep coming at me, pounding me, burying me. I come up gasping for air, just as another wave crests over me.
Just when I was sure I couldn't go on much longer at that pace, momentary salvation, a few hours with no new waves. After a few minutes quietly treading water to gather strength, I was able to swim a few strokes --blind to direction-but actually moving. Hopefully towards shore, not deeper into the ocean.
And so it begins….Kosh's words echoed in my head yesterday as it became clear that the end is approaching. I will do the first writeup today. I have only a few simple but cardinal rules, and he violated one. But the day ends as a blend of up and down: an unexpected, irresistible find; progress on other fronts at the office and a pleasant hour of conversation. I am exhausted when I go to bed again but I do not feel beaten down. I haven't felt that way yet, which is why I endure it, being consumed by my work.
I am under orders to slow down, orders that reinforce my own previous, internal conclusion. I do not push myself nearly so hard today, yet colleagues are nevertheless amused at how beaten I look when I finally leave the office. Rah!
Perhaps the adrenaline generated on those other harried days carried me through the last final hours. Or maybe it is really, finally, too much. This weekend I have promised myself calm, if not absolute indulgence. I will sleep late, dine early and try to do as little as necessary and as much as possible of what I find entertaining.
I awake still somewhat limp and I realize this will have to be a Philipp Glass day: one of minimalism and repeating themes. Yet tooling around the Island in Garrison does not bring any pleasure for a change, merely increasing agitation that on a day when I will do no work, allow nothing to drive me or the pace of the day, there is no one with which to share the day, the drive, the small errands. The coming new moon has cast a dark cloud.
Chocolate and caffeine, my favorite standbys, should see me through the next few days.
New moon impulsiveness strikes. Not the decision-making process, but the committing to action after the decision is made. Against the blackness of new moon, I find illumination through sudden, swift action of any variety. I bought furniture this time - the furniture that I've wanted for two years. The ever-growing need to have something finished finally outweighed other considerations. It is as if the path is suddenly clear of all other considerations: the reality of my desires cannot be disputed and the only logical outcome is to act.
Someday, the New Moon is going to get me in real trouble.
Driven to listen to King Crimson one month later, the obsession shows no indication of slowing or lessening. The ProjecKts are very interesting experimentations - and there are moments I can hear certain bits of ConstrucKtion of Light being born, but I wonder if my interest isn't really the common thread to all four projecKts. Heard Fripp's Refractions, his WTC soundscape concert from November. Very interesting sounds for a guitar, but beautiful without a doubt.
I've just bought grown-up furniture for my living room. I can't be spending more money on KC albums, but that is probably just what I'll do.
It hits me at some point that I've become much better at small talk than I ever would have believed possible. Unfortunately, at the moment that does not work to my advantage, not in this particular situation. If I were unable to hide my discomfort or dislike, then he would know better than to ask me for my number. I have no idea why we were put together and although it is not an absolute horror, I have no interest in anything more. Two months later I still have no possibilities on the horizon, not even a certain music-loving Brit.
Obviously, I am supposed to learn to ride Chaos, to go where it takes me and yet still navigate to where I want to be. Illogical, some may say, I've learned to pay attention to the universe when it talks to me and the last few days it has been repeating itself, growing louder each time.
Each attempt to impose order through schedules, organization and discipline has been only marginally successful or minimally effective in the grand scheme of things, if not completely overset.
I give in. I surrender my crown of Discipline to the Lord of Chaos. Indiscipline rules.
There appeared on the horizon today a small ray of hope offered from an unexpected source. It is unlikely to amount to anything significant, but the mere fact of its existence is greatly encouraging. And the nature of its origin delights, amuses me. It has a circular reference: Ouroborus, the Wheel of Time, what goes around comes around. In a darker vein, there's a certain cosmic symmetry in the origin, given the past that is/was. The flexible nature of time seems to occupy me as I write this. I believe that is important, but I know not why or how.
I love airports. They are gateways away from places of pain, bring you to your loved ones, or deposit them with you. They represent infinite opportunity: pick a destination city; there are so any to choose from. Exotic foreign locales, or a quiet vacation getaway, there's a flight destination to suit any mood. Arrivals - it has such a hopeful sound.
Spil is with me for the weekend. I pity the city, it has no idea what will happen tomorrow. If we start stereo-speaking too soon, we may scare off the wildlife but it will be a small price to pay.
A night of flashbacks, with the stage set by Queen, giving us multiple appearances of Bohemian Rhapsody. Doormen Mark at the Gaf, Frank at Avalon, Mike at Fitzie's. Bartenders Gene, Timmy, Ray, Johnny. Iggy, the O'Connor brothers (gorgeous eyes) it goes on….
Mike is still an ass, Danny has lost his soul. I've learned how to politely get rid of men I don't want.
I can't wear a dress to the Gaf: it has clear consequences of having to manoever someone who's been worshipping at the shrine of the Porcelain God instead of advancing pleasantries with the man at hand.
Sitting above at brunch - a sneer room of sorts - jazz echoing from the trio below, fresh seafood in my soup, I am happy. Perhaps it's a blissed-out, spiritual hangover from an evening of dark chocolate, good food and cider, laugher with Spil and having so many men flirt with me, talk with me, dance with me, that I am indisputably Queen of Gotham / Gotham Muse. Though I am ready to drop from exhaustion, I feel alive.
Without even realizing what I am about myself, I ask West about Eric - every opportunity is to be taken - and render him speechless.
I am sore, muscles around my stomach aching from laughing. And I am cold all day, a barometer of my true exhaustion. When the sun finally came out at 3, the day had an odd glow to it, a molten feeling as if it weren't over. I spent an evening by candlelight, cooking and reading, listening to Crimson . . and experienced the Return of the Wizard.
There is no logic behind his appearance. It may well be a brief one, they all are, but I am still glad, so glad on many levels, to have heard from him again.
Waking dreams haunted me today. Totally different from lucid dreaming. I fear I've pushed too far past my endurance and now hope I can manage recovery without total downtime.
I remember so many moments: my poem that Hilberry liked it so much, surprising me; tempting, or taunting, the cop at BK; the marathon Wagner weekend; celebrating the dissertation defense. I wonder what might have been.
Perhaps this is just a product of being so tired, the rational part of my being is only able to process work-related issues, leaving me adrift with the irrational, illogical remains of my private life.
Blankness - that is what I am all day. Perhaps due to the realization that it will take several more weeks to rein in the chaos. I have decided I will not let it intrude any more on this venue. Unfortunately, I have little else to write about these days - I rarely think of anything else. I have little energy in the evenings; I'm certainly not thinking when I get home. And the mornings, even if I have little energy, I open the laptop on the train. In extreme cases, I doze and daydream, try to escape into my imagination.
His voice isn't what I expected - not that I know what that would be, really. Seattle didn't somehow become part of Canada did it? That Canadian "o" - as in north - I heard traces of Bob & Doug McKenzie. I've seen more photos now, and it does not bode well: I need a distraction from my distraction.
My KC obsession continues apace. I've ordered Thrak, after an unusual recommendation from another KC fan, the Wizard. A collector's club membership is also mine now. I've spent my allowance for the month, but this is not ephemeral pleasure, but music that lasts.
Amidst the chaos which at times seems to be ever-increasing, there are distinct signs of growing order. I've decided the apparent increase in chaos is an illusion - as I become more familiar with the surroundings, I have more opportunity to view the details of the landscape, to see what they really are. They take on actual form, size and characteristics, rather than being merely a fuzzy blur.
Real progress is made on a few fronts, which is probably all I can ask for at this time. The situation was years in the making - I won't change it in a month.
Twelve hours of sleep. I can't remember the last time I did that, not even when I was sick. I am still lethargic, yet shining sky drives me out of the house, makes me restless.
Chai in hand, people-watching in this small hamlet, I am struck by the realization that I am happy. Chaos and exhaustion of work not withstanding, forget the fact I don't have a personal life; right here, right now, I am happy, not content. I don't want millions, to retire to a life of leisure. I want what I have right now. With one small exception.
I choose to take the difficult path personally and refuse to let him off the hook this time. He keeps showing up in my life, unannounced as it were, and then by vanishing unexpectedly, wreaks havoc with my equilibrium. I've only been convinced of the absolute rightness twice, and this is one, for all the good it has done me. Truthfully though, I have little substance on which to base this particular judgement.
So I knowingly play with explosives tonight as I write, trying to set fire to his memory, to provoke him into real action, for better or worse.
And if he chooses not to play, then what? I am surprised by the deafening silence, both by its existence and by my own reaction to it. I escape in more Gunn-Fripp enterprises. Now I know when that all began, if not exactly the how or why.
I did originally set things in motion, with direct action. In '93, I did not betray any indication of my truths, life was in flux then. Initiating contact may have been his limit. Last year, conversation died in mutual confusion.
I want to know why he reached out this time. Why? and now?
Last night I watched the moon rise from the train, this morning I saw the moon set as I went to the train; a cycle complete.
A cycle completed at work today - the last day of the thorn in my side this last month.
I feel slightly removed from everyone, as though I am not real. This week I think I am still working too hard, so perhaps I'll not work on the train the next few mornings. At least until I can't stand the backlog. I don't actually sleep on the train, but I can close my eyes, daydream
I've started the plan for Imbolc. Saturday will be a very interesting day. I am stuck on one aspect, determining what my main intent for the year is. So we're back to the JMS question, "what do you want?" Even on Buffy, it is recognized to be a dangerous question.
The limit of the year term might provide focus. And I know not to waste energy on something utterly unrealistic, like "world peace."
I am happy with my career. I love my house, flawed kitchen and all. There is something I do want, quietly, though I've seriously begun the work
The dancing lines of the music draw me in, irresistible, irrefutable. It is a trance, a drug, a dream, an escape, a reality, heaven.
Nothing else matters when this pulse exists. It as is though I cease to exist in the physical world, yet how can there be me in motion without a physical dimension? Calling Dr. Stephen Hawking…
I cannot sing at work, nor on the train, it must wait until I get home. But here it is a school night, end of the week even, and I want to sing. KC is magic - listen to the universe calling.
The Tip Jar