Car’s gone. Got hauled off today. Check is in the mail.
Today’s been one of those days where you pick up your shoes three times and drop them every damn time.
Extremities are tingling; I think I have circulation problems. Or a pinched nerve. Or too much caffeine on a daily basis. Caffeine’s a vasoconstrictor. Or I’m just old.
Strange times at work. Still figuring my ass from a hole in the ground. Everybody’s busy, nobody’s helping. Actually, help is there if I’d actually break silence and ask for it.
Changes. Changes are happening. Not at all welcome, but shit happens to force my hands. Best I can hope for is to push through with grace in these times of friction.
I’m currently intoxicated and trying to edit instrument definition files in Sonar for this music project. Making minor mistakes, and it’s hilarious. Fan is in the screen door blowing in, but the breeze is blowing through in the opposite direction, making things funny. I just don’t care. So far, no neighborsmoke blowing into my house, so that’s good. Eventually, I’ll finish this music project and publish it. Eventually, I’ll move out of this apartment. Eventually, I’ll live in the world again with people I trust. Eventually, life will begin again. Eventually, I will hope.
It is currently 69F outside, 80F inside, and I have a box fan in the screen door to blow in the cool night air. The smell of springtime has filled my dim apartment. There’s a certain florid smell that permeates the night, and I am so in love. The night mists rise as the winds breeze in from the Gulf, bringing the smell of damp ground coming back to life. The smell of river rot, the deep, soul-churning waves of nostalgia as the blossom of trees begin to limit our views and cause us to turn away from the stars to each other. We hide away from the heavens to live it up on warm earth. We are so in love.
The past week has been one of meeting my limits and deciding that I had no choice but to push through them.
I’ve had to start riding my bike as my sole mode of transportation because, as many of you know, my car was T-boned by a Suburban with a cattle guard last week while commuting to work. Wreck notwithstanding, I’m having to relearn all those tricks to riding a bike; they say you never forget, but that’s just the balance/pedaling part — what you forget is all the mechanics of how much force to exert on the down stroke, how much you can twist your soles to get some grip on the up stroke, how to ride through the pain, how to choose the best gear ratio, which muscle groups to exert, etcetera. That’s all the stuff you forget, and it’s those walls I’m pushing.
Also, my job is one limit to be pushed after another. I know enough to deal with coworkers, but it’s the little things that make my job a job. I have to answer phones; I’ve been wracked with trepidation over that, and it still pangs me with dread when I hear a phone ring in the cube farm. But it’s my job; I have to answer and help the customers get their servers running. The more calls I take, the more confident, by turns, I feel about it. I still hate doing so, but life sucks sometimes. Eventually, I’ll get so accustomed to it that I’ll be able to rant everlong like a seasoned tech-support operator. That’s the hope, anyway. All the mechanical stuff of how to treat customers who secretly need your help even though they sound angry, knowing that it’s OK to put them on hold, that it’s OK to ask that they log into their customer portal and file a proper trouble ticket, and so on. The greatest of my worries is that I will say the wrong thing and look like the poster child for the company of fools — which I’m not, and which we’re not. The rest of my worries is not knowing what I don’t know, of which there are mountains. But my most seasoned of coworkers are still learning things, so there’s that.
But now that I’m 42, I’m finding myself in the thick business of being a grownup and having grownup problems. I have to find another car. I have to deal with insurance bullshit. I have to go to work. I have to make my way. These are limits, and it’s my vigilant battle to overcome the biggest limit of them all: my own fears. Nobody’s going to hand it all to me; I have to be the one to demand it.
Dark room nights
when phosphor meant something;
electrons flowed from cathode,
magnetic fluxes to deviate beams
serial flow to parallel screens.
Alone at terminals,
each character changed flyback hum
colors changed with programmed tone –
music of the transistors underneath,
and whine of local parts
was sound of distant hearts.
Dial tones began the laughter
play time on the line,
that magic place without face:
i spoke i, you spoke you.
In the middle, telemediated
we laughed, cried, winked
modem lights blinked
big thoughts thinked
on every drink.
Drunk by remote control
telepresent love extol
tribe without turf and means
but glowing phosphors and dreams.