REPORT A PROBLEM
New moon darkness often brings unexpected clarity or recognition. A year into things, I no longer feel a surge of Field Marshal adrenalin kick in when a system goes down. I'm much more at ease worrying only about those parts of things that are my responsibility. I realized today that I still haven't had the management lobotomy: the welfare and happiness of "my boys" is more important than the business justification for something that is not morally right. This is the real reason I'll never make it to the senior levels here, or anywhere else. Except, possibly, my own company.
Real sleep, without bizarre, disturbing dreams. Was I too tired to dream, or to invent the barrage of Dali-esq merging of reality with unreality that has become par for the course?
Some people never remember their dreams. I almost always do, the good, the bad and the ugly. To not remember at least one dream is a rare occurrence for me, one that I find slightly unsettling. If you remember your dreams, you know you slept. Without the dream, it is more like waking from anaesthesia - where you in those permanently missing hours? Were you dead? Alive? Abducted by aliens?
As I looked in the mirror this morning, I stopped for a moment, startled by the woman looking back at me. The woman in the mirror looked amazing. The cut of the black knit dress was designed to minimize any extra, unwanted curves while playing up the hourglass shape, but it was not tight anywhere now. If anything, the dress might be a smidgen big on her.
This is me, I thought with delight. The changes have been slow over the last three months, but this moment in the mirror made them undeniable. I felt great all day at work.
I'm too tired to be angry today, and a reward for not indulging my temper awaits me when I get home, my very own bottle of Glayva, that luscious nectar from Scotland. From the first sip, not yet chilled from the ice, I think of late spring in Burford, the Three Musketeers together for the last time. I don't consciously think of my current isolation, definitely made extreme by Spil's defection, yet end up at the online Crimson HQ. Punchy but mellowed by the whisky-laced tendrils curling through my system, I restrain myself and only buy three more Crimson discs.
I was promised a sunny weekend. I stare at the drizzle and grey skies in dismay and it occurs to me this is a metaphor for my life. All I'm asking for is a sunny "weekend" off from the drudgery that has become my real life, the never-ending "work week." The Wizard's comments on last weekend's foolishness suggest that I have indeed become too much the stuffy adult. I need to do more of that harmless outrageousness. For years it was my trademark but I've ignored many opportunities in the last several years, claiming (or feigning?) tiredness, too busy, whatever.
Removing the layers, one by one, like reading someone's diary, day after day. If you never met the person, you would have a sense of them from what they wrote, how they wrote it. It is dangerous, of course, because the writing is not the person, can never convey the experience of being with that person. Yet it is tempting to view the understanding gained as the real personality, an underlying essence of sorts, distilled and refined to remove the clutter of habits, physical reality and a host of other untidy elements inherent in the complete composition of human beings.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: be careful what you wish for, the universe has a terrible sense of humour and will often deliver exactly what you ask for. According to it's own interpretation, of course.
Tantalizing hints of a real synthesis of intellect and soul had begun to rise to the top. Intrigued beyond reason, yet remembering a dream of monstrous images after the first exchange, I wished for a peek at reality; surely that would temper my overactive imagination. My wish was granted in an unexpected move that shocked me. Ooooooohhhhhh, I'm in trouble now.
Rogadaire called the GB a jam session. How very accurate: everyone contributing bits, different people taking the lead at various times, but each one aware of what others are doing, trying to keep it moving along in interesting directions, with no particular result in mind, just curious about where it goes. I'm riffing on themes of quantum mechanics again, abstracting them and applying them to the KC particle object. I once heard someone say, "life is not a dress rehearsal," implying it is a concert performance. How very dull. I think of life as a jam session, an exploration of grooves.
The discrepancy between the intelligence level of people I deal with in the "real" world, particularly at work, and the people who are part of my new home-away-from-home leaves me breathless. I have never found a community or gathering of intelligence in this vast metropolis centered on art and power, only an individual of interest here and there. My physical isolation seems more profound when contrasted to the interactions I see between other members of the online community. Perhaps a complete break is necessary, relocation the answer; truly, what holds me here? A forty by thirty assemblage of brick and wood?
Reconciling disparate chunks of intel and drawing the correct conclusion is difficult under the best of circumstances. I'm confronted with the prospect of doing this for several areas of my life simultaneously. I could ignore each situation for the time being although it appears that the options will only get smaller or worse over time. I suspect someone could devise an equation that could map out these prospects in a nice, orderly manner, define and compartmentalize everything. Contemplating one of these choices it became evident that I appear to many casual observers to be the sort to do just that.
After yet again being crucified for apparently doing my job too well, I was spurred by a comment made by a casual acquaintance to consider my work habits, my work ethic, my passion, how it might appear to others. Then someone else finally asked me a question about my perception of myself that I am unable to answer. Disconcerted, I started the excavation processes, disregarding my state of exhaustion. A series of personality tests and the results are conclusive - I'm an iNTj, a Rational, specifically a Mastermind. Little wonder that I'm so much on the outside everywhere I go.
Rain today grants me time to devote to myself, resting, relaxing, introspection. In an ironic bit of missing the trees for the forest it finally occurs to me that the lack of real-time personal conversations with anyone other than West and my parents is responsible for new levels of isolation, pushed me into deeper forays into cyberspace. My isolation is all but complete at this time yet I have no idea how to really change things. I don't even know whether I should try to change it or just accept it. What part of my life needs change the most?
It was like the sunset, slowly, inexorably advancing to the point where the final transition happens almost in the blink of an eye. And just as inevitable.
I don't know that this happens to everyone else (probably not): sometimes I encounter events or people and I know immediately how they will fit into my life, as if whatever the impact is or outcome will be, it was predestined. It is as though my soul recognizes the arrival of a transition point that cannot be changed. Sometimes this is quite unexpected and intimidating, other times it seems as natural as breathing.
Am I ready to relocate? Not in some general, abstract future sense, but now, next month? Disregard the actual location, am I ready to set everything in my life aside for the sake of a job? A very well-paying job, pure infosec, maximum 40 hours a week, with a global company. Why do I even have to think about it?! The fact that I do have to think about it tells me I am probably not ready to fly, at least not in this instance. Why?!? Fear of boredom in the job? Perhaps. Unwilling to leave my seaside perch? Ahhhhh.
As I listened to Yes' "Close To the Edge: I Get Up", sunrise slowly came over the land. And as that gorgeous organ segment started, the stern and glorious pipe organ sound at full throttle, pink tendrils flared in the east. What a way to start the day.
It of course disintegrated by 9 am, courtesy of what I now call "The Stupid, Crap App Show." During the course of the day, a musical a la Mel Brooks starts to form in my head, replete with Zeigfield Girls and a close to the first act worthy of Busby Berkley. RAH!
I want too much. Not meaning too many things, but that my desire and longings are too intense, too soon, too much. Or perhaps I am just more aware of what I want than others. I wonder if this wanting too much, combined with my Rational - "Mastermind" - iNTj personality has contributed to the infant death of so many relationships. I am not able to approach them reasonably: if a real possibility develops, I give myself to it completely; I always have.
But I doubt
change after marriage. As if it would ever matter.
I want to invite them all to the Summer Solstice Celebration. The solstice is actually on a Saturday this year and as last year was a total loss, I want to make it really great this year. I think it would be incredible to put all these people in a room, in real time, in the real world and see what happens. Unfortunately, there is always the possibility that the freedom and relative anonymity of cyberspace is what allows this kind of open dialogue. And of course, if anyone actually came to my party, I would be completely unmasked.
I can't quite believe it - the entries for several days are somehow, mysteriously, deleted. Entries I swore I had already posted to the site. The universe is at work here, something I wrote was apparently not fit to be read by others. But what am I to do now? How to recreate a week's worth of entries?? I hardly remember what I said and did yesterday, let alone ten days ago. Will revisiting the Forums spark some memory of what was going on, the thoughts fomenting in my brain? History revealed by the contents of various Sent Items folders?
Drinks on the porch at sunset is so civilized, even if I don't have a view of the Nile. An impromptu dinner with West has us laughing about peepresearch.org, among other things, but the absence of the third musketeer is glaring to me. I have to talk to Helene soon, real time, not just email. Spil is completely AWOL at this point, she's apparently not communicating with me anymore. At least it isn't completely personal, she's also ceased talking to the other Significant Party here in Gotham. It is all quite puzzling and yet we avoid the subject at dinner.
I remember that I started knitting the baby blanket for my friend in England and that I worked in garden pulling weed after weed after weed. Washed Garrison. Beyond that, nothing. No real information from the various archives. A day like any other, but with no real distinguishing characteristics about it.
This is one reason I keep on with this daily writing exercise: to keep some record of what happened on any given day that was most memorable. Declaring the uniqueness, so that my life does not stretch behind me in a series of grey monotone markers, indistinguishable and interchangeable.
Some days you just struggle for words. I spent all my capital on the words to accompany resumes today and I don't have many left over. I do have a new one, thanks to the GB, synesthesia: a neurological condition where your senses are cross-wired and you "taste" a smell and "see" the music. Apparently, my ability to see color in motion when listening to music might not simply be a product of my fertile imagination but a documented medical state. Perhaps, perhaps not. "Seeing" music is associated with various religious and musical traditions, it is not just medical state.
Another set of surprising insights from an outsider who is not living in the subterranean chambers of my 9 to 5 existence. The meaning of recent imprecations to come out into the light is finally clear: I have almost been brainwashed by several years of being told I'm the bad apple. That others not involved in the situation but clearly in a position to form nearly instant and valid evaluations - it is what they do for a living - hold me in such a different view is a welcome revelation. To convey that image in the resume becomes the immediate goal.
"Writing about music is like dancing about architecture." I understand the intended negative meaning of the statement but also see a different possibility: one form of art inspiring another. I've written about music a lot lately, although I don't claim that any of it is art, but music has inspired me. I've also been contemplating the function of music in my life, it's more than just entertainment. For literally decades I've used a Walkman to provide an instant soundtrack for my life. A larger selection of instantly available choices is tempting, but would I be living or just cueing music?
I am tired. In every way possible. Tired of stupidity, short-sightedness, boys, the politics at work, and tired of being tired. So tired that my eyes hurt an hour after waking, the morning dose of Crimson doesn't charge me up anymore. I tell myself that next week I will have three days to recharge, but acknowledge that unless some prospect appears in that time that will help change that thing which I most want changed (now unequivocally recognized to be my all-consuming job), three days is not going to do much other than allow me to catch up on sleep.
I am taken aback by the continued generosity from those who can have no ulterior motives. It is genuinely an expression of who they are and the particular dynamic or shared interest between us. It makes me less willing, however, to put up with those who say one thing, then do another, who say they'll call or write and don't. I've decided to invest much personal capital in initial offerings. Metaphor change: I send the ball into your court; if you want to play with me, you'll return the volley. If nothing comes back promptly, I will quietly move on.
It is hard to tell on days like this if the weather is influencing my mood or if it is simply a coincidence. Actually, I know that this particular mood has been days in the making and will not pass immediately. Silence on all possible fronts is deafening. Retrograde hasn't even started yet, but it seems every attempt I make to reach out to the world goes astray, one way or another. I feel rather like I'm living out my own version of the film "Boxing Helena," bits and pieces are being sliced away until there's nothing left at all.
Lose the commute, he said, his Aquarian radar apparently in cross-continental overdrive. Easy to say, much harder to do, although crucial for so many reasons. He doesn't know the half of what those twenty hours a week do to my life. My days are now composed of many truly little things: tending my flower garden, the return of childhood friends, watching sunrise from the train, sunset on my porch. If I don't look at it too closely, it is a passing imitation of Life. Each day I feel increasingly isolated. Impossibly, things have gotten worse since the wedding at Steepside.
The Wizard has a job, finally. One he is preparing to hate completely but that will give him financial stability for two years. There's a decent chance he might actually like it if he lets himself; he'll be so busy, he won't have time for regrets, an extra bonus. Perhaps he will now feel settled enough to pursue his desire for marriage and family with the "suitable" Polish woman at the shul. One of us should at least find fulfillment of our personal dreams, but time is starting to run out a little too fast for it to be me.
Enlightenment flooded me this morning on the train while I was engaged in the inward abstraction induced by the quiet clack of metal needles manipulating lengths of spun cotton fibers. The line connecting the dots (Jay, The Wizard and the current unrealized reality) and the picture they formed materialized fully formed in my head and soul. It is indisputably True, it is interwoven with my basic nature to be of service to others, although through the "corrective" lenses we have been taught to wear in our society, it is suspect. However abstract, it is the relationship dynamic that fulfills me.
Another Beltane approaches. The first of three vacation days, I decide it is absolutely a requirement for me to drink my morning coffee on the porch between now and Monday. Looking at the lush green of middle spring, I idly daydream about spending all my days gardening, knitting and baking bread while I continue to ponder yesterday's lightning bolt and its ramifications for the future. This little laser beam of truth admits she is more -not less- in danger of getting lost in the current unrealized reality now that she comprehends more fully the real attraction it holds for her.
The Tip Jar