Road Fell Away (Sunday Meditation #22)

October 7th, 2012. The Year of My Discontent.

It has been a year since it happened. 365 days around the Sun, back to where I started, only older. One year ago today, I was laid off from my job. The third time in as many years, a trifecta of monumentally dubious distinction. The honor is mine, but I would happy to have not been...graced...by its presence.

The preceding year has been one of growth and retreat, shock and joy, fear and contentedness. It has been singularly fruitless in the furthering of my career as an architect. Never have I expended so much effort in pursuit of work with so little return. The frustration and despondency have sometimes encased me in a portable sphere of emotional gel, on occasion. Thick, sticky and suffocating.

I am learning to breathe for the sake of breathing. Because I must. Because I exist independently of my education and training, my professional obligations and notions of self-worth appended thereto. It has to be that way, because I was myself before the world tried to define me.

Is there wisdom is this struggle of mine? Is there anything to be learned from this equinoctial year of professional disconnection? I hope so. But I cannot tell you yet what knowledge I have gained, my friends. I can tell you this: that moment when the wheels leave the pavement may well be one of the single most important defining moments of a lifetime, even if we don't recognize it.

Driving the straight and open path is easy, and not necessarily edifying. It is what we do when the road falls away that reveals so much more about ourselves. It may be time to let go of the wheel and trust I hit the pavement at the proper angle when I land.

Braving the Deep Wood - Where From Here?

A forest of noises, the great green wall within my head. Steam from the nostrils of my horse drifts lazily past my eyes. The sun is just cracking the sky, frost is on the grass, and I clutch the reins a bit nervously while staring into the trees. It is dark between the trunks. A darkness so thick I cannot quit the notion that it never goes away, even in the implacable white gold noon of a high summer's day.

---

I wrote that bit above a few days ago. My head was full of pressure and noise. That passage is what came out, and I must confess I was slightly disappointed. It started with such promise. It came to a crashing halt as I typed "...day."

The wheels fell off the writing bus. There was so much promise...

I seemed to have abruptly lost the thread. I was banging away on the keyboard, turned my head slightly to look out the window at a passing shadow, and the thoughts vanished like steam into the air.

I had such promise.

The paragraph suddenly became a metaphor for my forays into writing. Burst of promise, bright new idea, the words flowing...into nothing. This is most troubling.

There is something holding me back, dear ones, and I cannot get a grip on it. The specter of unfulfilled potential is shuffling around in the dusty closets of my mind. I am fighting the urge to look over my shoulder.

Specters, my friends. If anyone has insight in how to banish them, please let me know. It is the first day of September and harvest time is coming up soon. I need to be ready to reap what I have sown.

The Spice Merchant's Apprentice

July 24th, 2012. 8:21 PM. The fatigue of honest effort drives the typing.

A funny thing happened to me today after I arose from bed and made myself presentable to the world.

I put in a full work day today. Actual job-type work. It was enlightening. Enjoyable, even.

I know, I am as surprised as you are, if not more so. To be sure, it isn't full-time. It isn't in architecture or construction. It isn't in a field for which I have any real experience and certainly no training. In fact, it is a line of work in which I ever pictured myself engaged. Those of you know me well enough would know why.

It is in retail. Specifically, a store* that sells herbs, spices and seasonings as their raison d'etre. I like to think of it as, for lack of a better description, an apprentice spice merchant. Did I mention it is retail?

Shocked? I'm still a little stunned myself.

I fell into it by happenstance. I was up to my neck in a job search related to my architecture credentials, and as my mind was wont to do, it flitted off on a tangent regarding a seasoning I was out of at home. My crow-mind couldn't resist going after that mental shiny thing, so I went the company website to look it up. I am fortunate that there is a local outlet of the company near to my house, so I knew it would be easy to get there and get what I needed.

So I'm looking over the page and I notice they have a "Careers" tab. I thought "What the heck?" and I clicked on it to scroll down the list. Lo and behold, the local store was in need of a part-time staffer. I stared at the ad for a few moments, for a split-second thinking I should do it, then clicked away. Me, retail? The thought boggled the mind.

But it kept nagging at me. The idea wouldn't let me go. I considered my position, the long search I've been on and still...nothing.** I thought about all the time I've spent staring out the window after my job hunt activities have burned out for the day. I considered that it would nice to have something constructive to do, earn a little money, while I am slowly stitching my professional life back together.

I considered that I like spices. I like using them. I like reading about them, smelling them, and especially eating them. Somehow that overrode all my anxieties and misgivings about selling things and interacting with the general public on a regular basis. Again, anyone who knows me knows that sort of thing gives me a case of the yammering fantods just thinking about it. It is so far outside my comfort zone as to be in another galaxy.

So what did I do? I dropped off an application. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.

I had two interviews, one with the corporate office, one with the store manager. The whole time I felt like I was standing a few feet away from myself, wondering "Who is this man?". I had a hard time believing I was going through with it. This is not something I've done before. There would be things to learn.

So, as it turns out, they really liked me, I liked them, so when they offered, I said yes. Then I hyperventilated into a paper bag.*** The result is that today was my first day on in the spice biz.

I have to say it ended up being much more enjoyable than I could have imagined. It was a slow day, according to the manager and the co-worker with me, so I know it won't always be so pleasant. Aside from the slight awkwardness I felt (and always feel in similar situations) when warming up to the customers and new tasks, I daresay I even enjoyed it. And for the third time, those who know me I have some issues when it comes to dealing with a stream of people all day long. But you know what? I exceeded my expectations. That felt pretty darn good.

So there you have it, dear readers. Another step on the path, where it is headed I don't have a clear idea. For now, though, I'll keep on walking and see what turns up. You never know until you try, right?

---

*It is a spice company with stores nationwide, about 70 or so, I think. I may have mentioned them in past posts, but in regards to naming names, I'm a little unsure what journalistic protocols might apply now that I am an employee.
**To be accurate, the job climate in architecture has started to pick up a little around my region. It is still a slow awakening, and things are not moving very fast. There have been nibbles. But that is a post for another time...
***Okay, so I didn't hyperventilate into a paper bag. But I did put my head down between my knees and take long, slow breaths for a minute or two.

Billy Blaze Is Beating The Crap Out of Chuck Lumley. Maybe.

Monday, July 16th, 2012. 4:38 PM. Thirsty and nervous.

A problem with writing, sometimes and at least for me, is that there is an excess of voices in my head. Not in a "I've-lost-my-grip-and-become-unhinged" sort of way. It resembles a cacophony. A circus. The trading floor of a particularly eccentric, bizarre stock exchange.

Plus, there is the subtle yet pervasive odor of fear in the atmosphere. Fear makes me nervous.

The voices, they often make it hard for me to get anything done. Today is a case in point. I've been bouncing back and forth between trying to cobble together an effective job search, and attempting to suss out the thread of something my inner voice insists I write. Doing two complex tasks at once, and doing neither very well. I mean, just look at the drivel I'm putting on the page!

Gahhh. It is a first world problem that strikes at the root of my dilemma. I have been pursuing what I know how to do*, with unfortunately little usable results. I have also pursued what I don't know how to do**, with results even less impressive. All of this against a backdrop of a life in whirling flux. So many changes, so many things new and outside of the fragile snow globe I used to inhabit.

Well, that glass is broken now. A leap into the wild blue after years of habit broken by personal upheaval. It has affected my concentration. My creativity. My resolve to produce something worthwhile. The ideas come like stones skipping over the surface of the ocean. Tracking them all makes it own exhaustion, especially since I have aspirations to be more than just a hobbyist. As an architect, I should know more than many that in order to build anything, you need a solid plan.

So the joke seems to be on me. For reasons I have yet to understand, I have been unable to formulate a solid plan for any path I want to follow. I think about it, I make tentative steps in certain directions, and then I get distracted by the Stuff and the Things. I have lost focus far more times than I care to count. This is anxious-making, because I'm painfully aware I need to get it together.

The pragmatic, practical side of me, the one that is fond of structure and routine is banging heads with the creative, artistic side that is desperate to bloom and explore. There has to be a way to reconcile the two. All the more critical as I hope to find a way to make a living out of the beautiful mess of my life. I need my one big idea.

Remember the movie Night Shift which came out in 1982, with Michael Keaton and Henry Winkler? As some may know, Michael Keaton played William Blazejowski aka 'Billy Blaze'. He was the feckless numbskull, always carrying a miniature tape recorder so he could capture the big ideas that were constantly springing forth from his overheated mind.*** Henry Winkler played Chuck Lumley, the sad-sack, straight-laced guy who quit Wall Street for a low-stress job in a morgue. They both end up on the night shift, and hilarity ensues. The Creative and the Steward in comic tension.

Chuck Lumley and Billy Blaze are slugging it out in my head, cheered on by a crowd of reprobates, hangers-on and clowns. I'm not sure who is ahead in this contest, but I can tell you it is noisy, it is frenetic and it is exhausting. Chuck wants me to settle down and take the first, safest thing that comes up. Billy wants me to keep cranking out the ideas until we have that One Big Idea.

I want that One Big Idea, too, dear readers. I'm just not sure how much longer I can hold out.

---

*The wonderful if exceedingly frustrating world of architecture.
**In other words, writing and photography. By 'don't know how to do' I mean I was not formally educated in, nor do I have professional credentials in, either area of artistic/professional endeavor.
***My favorite is the one where Billy is eating a fast food burger. He stops to stare at the wrapper, then whips out the recorder to say "Idea to reduce garbage:edible paper!" The look on his face was hilarious.

Salarymen in the Mist

On Friday, June 29th at approximately 7:30 in the morning I swung my feet from bed to floor only to find that it was quite possible I no longer exist. A disconcerting sensation no matter which day of the week on which it might occur, but all the stronger for it being close to the weekend. I was not pleased with this turn of events. I like to exist.

Vertigo laced with anxiety made my belly flip a little. I patted the carpet, a high shag affair, with my feet to assure myself that I could indeed stand up. The softly scratchy strands felt good, felt so mundane that I made myself get to my feet. Surely the floor would support me. No embarrassing sinking through the floor to fall to the living room below and then on to the the basement. Why I thought a concrete slab would hold me if carpet and a wood floor would not, I do not know. I stood up. I did not sink into or through the floor, except to the extent my weight caused compression of the carpet. Very reassuring, that.

Sunlight leaking in between the small slats of the blinds caused me to blink. A good sign as well, I told myself. The knot in my belly loosened almost imperceptibly. Air flowed into my lungs with a muffled rasp. The sound inside my head gave me some comfort. It seemed so normal. I think I was just happy to breathe and feel the coursing of air in my chest.

So far, so good. Feet on the floor, air in the lungs, no fainting or disappearing into the woodwork. I felt less dizzy as I quickly scanned my surroundings.

Rumpled sheets. 
Bedside table with books. 
Low hum of fan. 
Phone on nightstand.

Heart beating, limbs moving, earth turning. I must be here, I exist...right?

Then why did I feel as if there were no gravity and that my flesh was becoming transparent before my groggy eyes?

I shook it off and made my way to the bathroom for some brief ablutions. Then it was downstairs for tea and breakfast. I don't recall what I made then, it must have been something simple. There were things to do and places to go, and none of them would wait for angst to make itself scarce. I showered and made ready for a road trip, all the while puzzling over my very own 'unbearable lightness of being'. It kept me occupied for quite some time.

Somewhere between lunch and departure it hit me square in the cerebral cortex: I am a salaryman without a salary, and thus a certain way, I do not exist. I don't earn, therefore, I am not. Years of societal and professional conditioning had led me to this identification of self with salary, and that is a dangerous place to hang the hat of one's identity.

The pieces came together. I am approaching nine months without employment, and in this culture of job = money = worth, that nine months is akin to a lifetime. This feeling gripped me hard, this uneasy knowledge that to many employers perhaps I have become invisible. Nothing breeds success like success, and ladies and gentlemen, I have had no success in the time I have been looking. There is some truth to the notion that it is much easier to get a job when you already have a job, and I am without.

Not exactly front page news in architecture, a profession that unfortunately seems to demand experience without necessarily wanting to pay for it. You can imagine how discouraging that feels, having put in a lot of time with no results to show.

I took some cold comfort from having identified the root cause of my anxiety. It is always easier to deal with a known enemy rather than a mystery. I talked it out some with my companion, and was reassured that I do exist, that I live and breathe, and that I am real.

I know I am. I feel the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, the food in  my belly. These are all good. What troubles me is that for a bad moment on an ordinary morning, external ideas of self-worth overrode internal ideas of my identity. Nine months of looking for myself in the wrong mirror came to roost, and it took some heavy mental lifting and a strong dose of love to return the ground to beneath my feet.

Solid ground. I have it. I gained some breathing room for my mind. There will be something out there for me, I have to believe that. It will be something I can do, even if I myself do not know yet what that something is. What I will not do is make the mistake of confusing what I can do for money with what I truly am worth.

Forks, Branches and Right Path: The Search

“If you only write when inspired, you may be a fairly decent poet, but you'll never be a novelist.”
― Neil Gaiman

Thanks, Neil.  Like I really need the reminder that I may be a decent poet (but I can't be objective about that), and that I may never be a novelist. (sigh).  These days, I'm far from inspired.

I have been chewing on this bon mot for a few days.  There has been much going on in the alternate universe that is Gumbo's Brain, much of it fueled by the relentless pressure of the Job Hunt.  As the saying goes, looking for a job is a full-time job. It isn't physically strenuous, but mentally, it can really abrade the contact surfaces, you dig?  On the good days, it is a faint fatigue on the soul.  On the bad days...well, then it is like a big bag of wet cement laid across the head and shoulders.  It is heavy, and it presses you into the floor.  A big bucket o' suck, it is.

So what does that have to do with being a novelist?  Nothing and everything, I suppose.  My current job search has to play to my resume in order to have the most chance of success.  The search has to cleave closely to my documentable (i.e., 'paid and credentialed'), and that is nowhere near the territory of a novelist.  So there is the Nothing.

Tantalizingly, there are a number of conceptual parallels between writing and architecture.  There are also many direct intersections.  A lot of what I do (did) as an architect involved writing.  Writing notes, reports, specifications, proposals, estimates, you name it.  A careful describing of all sorts of things, written in dense paragraphs and splashed across brochures, coded into permit applications and construction cost spreadsheets.  There is a certain need for attention to detail and language and craft, even if much of it was technical and not truly creative.

"Being A Writer" is my big idea, an alternate path to gainful use of my time; becoming a Novelist would be the culmination of a dream-seed that has been germinating in my head for some years now.  I hadn't considered it as a full-time pursuit, because of the necessity of the real-life job.

A job that went away last October.  Leaving me in a free-fall of which I am still not in control.

This leads back to the Everything I mentioned above.  I am now at a crossroads.  I have been searching for a job in the field in which I have training and credentials; as a matter of common sense and necessity, I am obligated for it.

As a matter of survival and adaptability, however, it is becoming increasingly clear that I have to make a transition from writer to Writer, if I want to keep the wheels turning.  I must consider blazing a new trail, climbing a new cliff.  It is a new world order, and I cannot keep going back to the same things, performing the same actions, and expecting a different result. 

I'm weary, dear friends.  The drain of my predicament (but make no mistake, I know it could be worse, and I'm glad it is not) has me at an impasse.  I am in a creative slump, I am horribly unsure of which way to go, there are threads I cannot grasp.  I know what I have done, and could continue to do; I cannot abandon the field but it is mostly barren at the moment.  I know now what I could do, if only I had the energy, fortitude and most important of all, the imagination to forge a path into pastures new.  Alas, my imagination is choking on the splinters of the present.

This is maddening.  There has to be a way forward, there just has to be.  If only I could find the right path. If only I could write the novel that fuels my dreams.

The Shakes

Bobby Sack grunted, reaching for the bucket by the side of the bed just in time to catch the foulness gushing from his mouth.  He coughed like a geyser, trying hard not to puke on the bed again.  His head hung weakly over the edge of the bed, his sweating face inches away from the sick.  Even in his nauseated haze, that offended his sensibilities.  Flashbacks to some of the worst he endured in the infantry, back in the Burmese jungle, and he realized he just couldn't take it anymore.

Peeling leeches the size of pencils off my legs was nothing compared to this, he thought.  Time for it to be over.  In his line of work, booze made for bad business.

Two dry heaves later, Bobby rolls over on his back, the bucket like a vile bell dangling from his fingers.  He set it down gently so as not to spill it.  The ground-down carpet was in bad shape, he considered, but adding the contents of his stomach to the filth would just be insult on injury.  Bobby blinked slow, a lizard in the heat.  His stomach cramped and he winced.  The flies, goddamn flies, why they gotta be so loud? he thought.

Heat. The room reeked of hot sick and sweat.  The ceiling fan was moving but the air was so thick the fan seemed like a joke.  Bobby slapped at the bedside table, desperate for a smoke.  The cellophane of the packet crackled like static, bringing a momentary recall of combat radios and call signs.  "Fuck me," Bobby rasped up at the dusty plaster on the ceiling.  One day to the next job, and he was a hot mess.  He brought a cigarette up to his lips, hands trembling like palm fronds in rotor wash.  He cursed as he singed the tip of his nose.  It was a minor miracle that the damage wasn't worse.

Bobby looked at his hands.  The shaking was worse, much worse, this time.  The last job he had nearly ditched on because of the shakes. The voice started up in his head, another diatribe waiting to happen. Can't.  Can't do it this time, either, the words tracking neon-like across his mind. But what choice do I have?

Outside in the street, a screech of tires followed by the brassy blare of horns.  The sound wave pierced the thin wall of the cottage, driving a subzero spike of pain through  Bobby's head.  A wave of nausea wracked his body as he clutched his temples hard to keep himself from puking again.  The throbbing nearly drowned out the argument going on.  Bobby could not make out what they were fighting about; it sounded like Thai but his fluency was just enough for him to order a beer and politely turn down a hooker's come-on.

The trembling in his pain-wracked, wiry frame subsided.  The noise faded away as the dispute seemed to be resolved.  Bobby took another drag, coughed on the harshness of the Vietnamese tobacco, and slowly sat up.  His feet bracketed the bucket.  The surface of the vile liquid shimmered slightly under the influence of some small tremor Bobby couldn't feel.

Standing up slowly, he picked up the bucket, holding it gingerly as he padded slowly to the small closet under the steps that held a toilet and a sink.  On the way there, his glance caught the glint of sunlight on the battered aluminum gun case he had set down beside the antique wicker cabinet holding the few clothes he kept.  His steps faltered, briefly, and one hand reflexively grasped at his sunken belly.

Bobby shook his head to clear it.  The bucket shook, a thick slopping sound rising to his ears.  He started to cry and continued on to the toilet, emptying the bucket.  Flushing the ancient bowl, he watched the foulness swirl away to nothing.  The bucket he rinsed as best he could, in the sink, while he sobbed.  He felt a dark kinship with the bucket, it not being lost on him that they were both battered, dirty vessels, never quite clean.

As he swabbed out the bucket with a dirty rag, Bobby told himself that maybe, just maybe, this could be the last job he ever had to do.  And when he was done, he would never have the shakes again.

Sitting Beside The Tracks, Waiting. The Crickets Hum.

I'm here.  Not doing much, but I'm here.  Good thing I brought a hat.  The November sun hits low in the cool air, but it can still burn me.  I am waiting beside the tracks for the train whose number I do not know.  I suppose I'll sit here a spell and wait for the shadows to lengthen over the hill.  A tunnel bores through the hill like a wide-open vein.

---

Metaphorically, you understand.  The reality is that I am sitting on my couch.  Sundown was three hours ago.  the quiet in the house is just what I need.  I'm a little confused that it is warm enough that I have some windows open to catch the breeze.  Post-holiday fatigue has set in, it is a shade lonely here at Casa Del Gumbo.

But I am waiting.  That is no metaphor.

I accomplished a lot today.  I'll spare your the tedium of my Domestic God triumphs, let's just say a lot of ducks and a lot of rows now march behind me.  The two things I did NOT get done, however, weigh on my big noggin.  Here's what I did not get done:

1) Find a job.
2) Write something truly edifying.

It's funny, right now I cannot decide which pains me more.  I managed to get a resume out the door, but the 22 others behind it?  Nothing.  As to the writing, dear readers,  I'm in a pickle.  This is the longest drought I think I've ever had.  It has me worried.  It also makes me tired.

I have this recurring image in my head of popping a cork from a bottle to pour something, only nothing comes out.  Except a puff of air.  And the tang of desperation.  So, the glass remains empty in this most quiet of Novembers.

---

It's deep fall in the woods by the river.  I hear its murmurs, faint and silvery as they filter up through the barren trees.  The rail bed gravel is warm beneath my haunches, a welcome buffer against the slow cooling of the air.  The air itself is tinged with watery gold as the sun goes down.  The mineral tang of rock embraces the dusty grass aroma of the weeds on the embankment.  A soft, steady breath of cold air wafts from the mouth of the tunnel as I peer into the gathering darkness in the middle.  The rails, twin seams of polished silver leading to a mouth of gold at the far end of the tunnel.  I stare into the gold, eyes owlish with fatigue.

I place my hands on the burnished metal rail in front of me.  It trembles ever so faintly, but I cannot tell if a train is coming, or the earth is sighing.  I remove my hands, and wait.

Stumbling Around The Block

This is serious, folks.  This is the worst case of writer's block I've had in three years.  The weather is foggy in my head.  I cannot figure out how to make it lift.

I know this is a first-world problem, and it doesn't threaten to destabilize anything else in my life.  So I am grateful for it to be so.  It does have me troubled.  I like to write.  Writing has come to mean much to me, catharsis, therapy, creative fulfillment, quiet joy.  Exploring the Cave of Wonders that is my head provides me with heat and light for the soul.

The hearth is getting cooler.  The fire is burning low.  In the little cottage of my heart, I lie on the bunk huddled under blankets and watch the tiny flames sputter and dim.  I want to arise and throw more wood on the embers, but the bin is empty save for a few twigs and a scrap of bark.  Wind knocks on the door, beckoning me outside to forage for fuel.

But it is warm here under the blankets, and I am tired.

Glistening Edges

So you may have guessed by now, I haven't felt much like writing lately.  A few random bursts here in October, plus some handwritten stuff in my little black notebooks (for me, not thee, at this time) and in a new journal I'm keeping.  The streak is over, too, last entry for my More Than A Year Of Daily Writing went up on October 8th.  Officially I topped out at 375 straight days of posting.  Not sure how I managed that.

But mostly, I haven't felt the ambition to write.  Most of the ideas I've had I decide really weren't that blog-worthy, and for the remainder I haven had little energy to pursue them.  I have been too tired to return replies, as my poor record with responses to everyone will indicate.  It's because of the "cold black space with the glistening edges"* that has broken open my personal space-time continuum: getting laid off, the subsequent job search and the attendant money crisis created thereby.

This particular black space has not taken complete control of my life, but its presence is sucking up a lot of energy and attention.  It makes me tired.  I have to crank up the personal PR machine, again, start "rebranding" myself again, and it inflicts upon me great vexation.

I know I am capable, and smart, and good at what I do.  I'm also tired of having to explain that over and over.  It's draining and does no good for my morale.  Fighting for balance and security so frequently, well, that is no way to live a life.  I am not really a magician, and my hat may be out of rabbits.

The upside is I have people who love me, who care about me and are helping me in ways practical and spiritual.  I truly would not be able to sustain myself without their help.  I am grateful for the support, emotionally and otherwise. There are other things I am grateful for, too, including the many readers I have here on Irish Gumbo, and I may write a little more about that stuff later.

For now, I'm going to get some rest, and say thanks to all those who believe in me.  Thank you.

---

*Bonus points and a Gumbo high five if you can tell me the song from which that lyric was taken, and the band.

Of Axes and Impossibilities

This post wrote itself.  Not literally, of course.  I, me, the person who is at the keyboard did the work.  The central idea, however, was ready made.

I was let go from my job today.

Third time in three years.  I must say, it is a song and dance I am mighty sick of doing.  The timing is never good, but it is absolutely horrible for me right here and now.  I am quite short in a key resource, and the steady paycheck was necessity not nicety; no fat margins for me.  Hell, no real margin at all.

I say "was".  Reality? It is a necessity, a fact driven home to me when I sat down to take stock.  The stock, sad to say, was a bit thin.

So.

I don't know what the next step may be.  I've been an architect all of my adult life.  This is the sixth time in that span that I have been laid off.  You might think the universe is trying to tell me something.  The problem, the crux of this dilemma, is that I really don't know what to do next.

That's a hell of a thing for someone who is trained as a professional problem solver.

So.

Where now?  And did you know that, coincidentally, I began blogging three years and a day ago?  Interesting.  Trivial.  Useless, maybe, as a fact.  But interesting.

So.

Where do I go now?  I don't know.  I just don't know.  I'm fleeing axefalls and running headlong into impossibilities.  It's going to take some magic.

I'll Not Be A Pr*ck

September 2, 2011 - Mind akimbo.

Mind wandering, careening back and forth across the pavement like a wheel that fell off a bus.  All because I was directed to do something that would have made me seem like a prick.

What I was directed to do was not illegal, immoral or unethical.  It did not go against the tenets of my profession.  It was nothing major, but just the same...it would have made me seem like a prick.  All because someone else was acting like one, but was "too busy" to do the thing itself.  I was acting on earlier directions, following instructions and exercising my professional discretion to get things done.  When I relayed the news that the information we sought would probably not be available in time to get it into the project, I was directed to give an ultimatum to the person providing the information: get it to us by X, or have your name removed from consideration.

An ultimatum given for no other reason than it could be, flexing muscles for the sake of flexing.  I asked if that was really necessary, given that the issue in question would not delay the project, could easily be added after it went out (when it was apparent that other, bigger things will have to be added), and was it worth it?

I was rewarded with spite, pissiness and dismissal.  I was told "never mind, I'll do it myself".

On a late afternoon in September, I was directed to do something unnecessary, that would have made me look like a prick.  All in the service to another's apparent insecurities.

I didn't do it.  I'll not be a prick as a surrogate for someone else.  Never again.

Music and Politics and a Sweet Ride

After watching our boy Richard Engel in Iraq, then Egypt (see above) and now Libya, I have to say I'm very impressed.  Boy's got stones, he does.

But maybe its fatigue settling in, me feeling a bit punchy...but I saw the original newscast of the happenings in that video, and watched the video tonight, and both times I had the same thought:

Wouldn't it have been hilarious if, in the background, a tricked-out Impala low rider drove by, blaring an Arabic-language version of "F**k Tha Police"?

Yep.  I'm tired.

Crocodile

---

Image of Mr. Boehner from the LA Times Opinion pages. 

I Didn't Get No Cheese

Tony Hayward.

Joe Barton.

John Boehner.

(sigh)

I held out as long as I could. But this did me in:

Sharron, I must be fresh as a daisy, because I'm not feeling rotten.
At least, not in the way you said it.

(sigh.)

I leave them with this little ditty, circa 1983:

Block of cheese, anyone? Quick, before it spoils!

Things That Make Me Go Hmmm...

A clipping that fell out of an old folder of mine...do you ever have that feeling that someone is trying to tell you something?

That Collar Looks Smashing, Don't You Think?

T-minus 7 days and counting.

I am preparing for launch. The wheels of the Universe have turned in their own mysterious fashion and through whatever machinations of Fate, it has happened.

I have somehow found myself gainfully employed. The fittings for the collar went swimmingly, and on Monday, March 9th, I will once again be captaining an ergonomically correct, full-motion and probably black or dark blue desk chair.

I cannot confirm the color, because I have not seen the actual chair yet. But I have seen enough of them in nearly 20 years of architectin’ to be very familiar with the type. My workstation was not complete yet, but I have been assured that it will be ready by the time I show up. I have no doubt that it will be. The workstation will have the accoutrements of modern business, the usual suspects: phone, task lamp (maybe), computer. I hope to have unlimited access to Post-Its.

The company I am going join has a good reputation, does some interesting work and is stable. I thoroughly enjoyed my interview, and they reciprocated with interest. It looks like I will be getting my hands on work that has interest for me, and should keep me suitably engaged. I am hoping to fully utilize the skills and talents I think I brought to the table. I believe I’ll have the opportunity to perhaps create some good work. Plus, this job makes some other things possible.

In a week, I will be back to the singular pleasures and subtle delights of the regular workday. I will have a new commute, twice as long as my old one, through the heart of Charm City. My new workplace will not be as easy to get to as my previous place of employment. Perhaps this will be offset in part by access to an even broader array of eating/drinking establishments. There is the typical pizza place, a burrito joint (I like burritos, especially with pinto beans), and at least one place that has free Wi-Fi access. I expect I will be availing myself of their hospitality to do some Internettin’ away from the office and in the relative anonymity of a busy café. Also nearby is an Irish pub/restaurant, within easy walking distance. It has a decent reputation; I am eager to determine how well they handle the pouring of a pint of Guinness. Professional curiosity, you know.

For obvious reasons, a significant portion of my time will have to be dedicated to making my new position a success. It has to. Given the current economic situation, I would be foolish to not do my best. And I have always striven to do my best, no matter what I am engaged in.

I don’t know exactly what this means for my presence here on Irish Gumbo, other than to say I will have to pull back a bit. I need to do that anyway, because of my desire to develop some book ideas, do some marketing for publishing and that sort of thing.

I also need to pull back for some personal reasons, and because I am low on energy. I have been putting a lot of myself into the blog, occasionally more than I should perhaps, and it is catching up with me now. To be candid, I am approaching exhaustion. But I will not be giving it up. I can’t. I’ve learned too much, had a lot of fun and made some wonderful, wonderful connections.

Whither Irish Gumbo? Give me a moment to catch my breath. Then let’s figure it out, you and I.

Woo-Hoo, Everybody! I Got Laid......Off

I didn't duck fast enough. I couldn't outrun the wolves. What is worse, I wasn't even really aware that the wolves were after me. Or maybe it was cheetahs:

THIS IS WHAT IT FELT LIKE

I got the "Do you have a minute, in the conference room?" approach just minutes before lunch today. Double suck for me, I get really cranky when I don't eat on a regular basis. I had to go in there with no food in my stomach. Wait, maybe that was a good thing. Nothing to hurl when I felt that punch in the stomach.

The tidal wave of the recessionary economy finally hit the beach I was standing on, so now I am bobbing around in the rip current. After about 16 years of steady employment, I am now out of work for the first time since the early 1990's.

Not to put too fine of a point on it, this sucks donkeys.

I have been in this position before, but I was younger (a lot younger) and I didn't have a kid and a mortgage. My cushion is a little bigger, but so are the obligations. Of course, I am not telling you all anything you don't already know.

Right now I am not as upset as I thought I would be, oddly enough. Yes, this is awful; the short term disruptions (two weeks before Christmas!) are aggravating as hell. I don't look forward to doing the unemployment office dance. I still have bad memories of that from last time. On the other hand, I am trying to remain positive. Truth be known, the position I was in was not the ideal for me. I was chafing under the management style, and struggling with a lack of adequate resources. I was not the best I could be.

Yes, it paid the bills. And I am sick at heart to lose that means of support. Got to make that dolla, or I'm gonna holla, boyeee! Right?

On the drive home, I was thinking about everything and thinking about nothing, trying to keep the worry off my mind. I realized that this is a "crossroads" moment. I could resign myself to possible months of unemployment while trying to replace my old self with the same thing. Or maybe, just maybe, this is a golden opportunity for REINVENTION. Maybe now is the time to truly find that thing that will combine what I want to do with want I need to do.

I can't say that I was filled with an overwhelming peace, or that I had a true epiphany. No beams of light or angels coming out of the sky. But I did feel more at ease. If ever there was a time for positive change this would be it. In the short term, I'll be looking for another architectin' type job (if anyone needs a freelance designer, I'm your man!), but in the long term? Hmm. Perhaps its time to learn to make a different kind of gumbo.

Wish me luck, and peace to all!