So this is the fourth month of unemployment, eh?
*looks left*
*looks right*
*pets a sleeping tabby*
At what point does it change from "unemployment" to flat out "retirement"?
So here's the thing ... I know what I can do - what I'm capable of, job-wise. I know what I LIKE doing, I know the environment that I do best in, I know what kind of management style I respond well to ... I know all those things. And yet I find myself unmoved to actually DO anything about this ... ermmmmm ... "retirement".
Truth be told, I don't really have to do anything at all about it and, while that's nice, it's obvious to me as I stroll - slowly stroll - through the "Crackers/Nuts/snacks" aisle of a grocery store at 1pm on a Tuesday, I'm in the minority here. People my age don't retire. People my age who aren't receiving a paycheck have children, usually a couple of them. They spend their day picking up the mess from the family dinner the night before, they go to the pharmacy to get their prescription, stop by the library to return a few books, and then they drop by school to pick up their kids.
Now before ya' say it, I'll save you the trouble. Employment - or the lack thereof - hasn't exactly been my biggest issue as of late, I know. I'm not making light of what my body has put me through ... what it did to me. I respect my limitations, though I am not fond of them. Even so, those limitations seem to be more and more limited these days. I'm running out of excuses ... maybe that's when one starts saying "retired" instead of "unemployed".
Typically, I end my day under a hot stream of water. I've always been an evening shower person. I find the warmth and the sound very relaxing and a great way to make my head shut up. Earlier this week, I stepped out of the shower and, for whatever reason, I spent several long minutes just looking at my reflection in the mirror. That person there? She didn't "look" sick. She didn't "look" sore. She didn't "look" like a patient (my newest least-favorite word). Despite the massive bruising that seems to never go away completely and the arms that have been witness to a barrage of needles, she looked ... calm, actually. At peace. She looked alright.
Additional strangeness - she seems to be smiling. And I've think I've been hearing her laugh, too. What the hell is THAT all about?
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Look "sad" - great. Give me "conflicted". How about "mad"?
I know that I've discussed the hit-and-miss art of active (and accurate) communication via any sort of electronic means in the past, but I guess I wasn't listening when I wrote it, or maybe I was using the wrong voice when I read it afterwards.
(Yes, I realize that one doesn't listen to something written. See now that was meant to be a tongue-in-cheek funny kind of thing but if you weren't reading it in the voice I had intended, ya' missed it. Explaining it, as I've just done, makes it boring and stupid. *sigh* Moving on ...)
It still fascinates - and disappoints, moves, angers, tickles - me how much we, as human beings, try to put ourselves in what we read, perhaps in an effort to understand the writers point of view, which then helps us to formulate an opinion one way or another. I GUESS that's what it is anyway. How else to explain the various rantings in the Editorial column of any newspaper? Or the comment section of a movie critic when the general population decides to make sure they tell him how wrong he was for not liking "Summer Random Blockbuster Film Starring Nick Cage".
(See now there - with that fake movie title I created? I was hoping you'd put in your own title for a film that maybe you loved ... or loathed. The fact that I included Nick Cage in it only alerts MY inner voice to say "soooo this would be a film that I actively avoided". Ahhhhh Nick Cage ... Founder of the Derek Zoolander School of Celluloid Emoting.)
We all probably, at one point or another, have exchanged communication with someone and have "heard" disappointment or sadness in their words. Sometimes it's an obvious conclusion to draw. If the conversation is about the loss of a pet or dealing with a no-win situation at work, it makes sense that there might be a tone involved. But I find it almost impossible to not insert my own tone, my own voice, emotions, circumstances when reading something, especially an email (to draw upon a specific example).
So it is when trying to convey information via email to a group of people. I could write out a perfectly eloquent paragraph to let folks know what's going on in my little corner of the world, and I'd get back responses ranging from "thanks for keeping me in the loop - I appreciate it and it's great to hear the hope in this message" to "wow - sending you virtual hugs and just know that things will look up soon" to "You don't like Nick Cage? How the fuck can you not like Nick Cage?"
But we - that is to say "I" - keep trying anyway, right? The alternative would be to either limit ourselves to having friends and family that live within easily-traveled visiting distances so that all communication would be face to face. So we - I - just keep trying to have those open lines of communication with people we - I - know well enough to allow them to have a comfort level sufficient to write us - me - back and say "Seriously, J. You REALLY don't like Nick Cage. Did you see his 'Random Blockbuster Film' this past Summer??"
(Yes, I realize that one doesn't listen to something written. See now that was meant to be a tongue-in-cheek funny kind of thing but if you weren't reading it in the voice I had intended, ya' missed it. Explaining it, as I've just done, makes it boring and stupid. *sigh* Moving on ...)
It still fascinates - and disappoints, moves, angers, tickles - me how much we, as human beings, try to put ourselves in what we read, perhaps in an effort to understand the writers point of view, which then helps us to formulate an opinion one way or another. I GUESS that's what it is anyway. How else to explain the various rantings in the Editorial column of any newspaper? Or the comment section of a movie critic when the general population decides to make sure they tell him how wrong he was for not liking "Summer Random Blockbuster Film Starring Nick Cage".
(See now there - with that fake movie title I created? I was hoping you'd put in your own title for a film that maybe you loved ... or loathed. The fact that I included Nick Cage in it only alerts MY inner voice to say "soooo this would be a film that I actively avoided". Ahhhhh Nick Cage ... Founder of the Derek Zoolander School of Celluloid Emoting.)
We all probably, at one point or another, have exchanged communication with someone and have "heard" disappointment or sadness in their words. Sometimes it's an obvious conclusion to draw. If the conversation is about the loss of a pet or dealing with a no-win situation at work, it makes sense that there might be a tone involved. But I find it almost impossible to not insert my own tone, my own voice, emotions, circumstances when reading something, especially an email (to draw upon a specific example).
So it is when trying to convey information via email to a group of people. I could write out a perfectly eloquent paragraph to let folks know what's going on in my little corner of the world, and I'd get back responses ranging from "thanks for keeping me in the loop - I appreciate it and it's great to hear the hope in this message" to "wow - sending you virtual hugs and just know that things will look up soon" to "You don't like Nick Cage? How the fuck can you not like Nick Cage?"
But we - that is to say "I" - keep trying anyway, right? The alternative would be to either limit ourselves to having friends and family that live within easily-traveled visiting distances so that all communication would be face to face. So we - I - just keep trying to have those open lines of communication with people we - I - know well enough to allow them to have a comfort level sufficient to write us - me - back and say "Seriously, J. You REALLY don't like Nick Cage. Did you see his 'Random Blockbuster Film' this past Summer??"
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Piano Man
You may have noticed from my most recent entry that my soundtrack this weekend was presented to me by Billy Joel. (In fact, he just finished singing the last few desperate words of "Pressure" in my ears.)
Every generation has their musical poet. There are those that say Bob Dylan holds this title, and maybe he does. I could never get past his voice to actually listen to (or even decipher, at times) what he was singing. I've been told it is moving and meaningful stuff. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about "what the hell did he just say?" to be moved.
Today, with close to 4,000 songs on my iTunes account, I have categories that possibly didn't exist when I was a child. What artist would I possibly categorize as "Funk Polka"? How would Scott Joplin feel to know that he's musically listed between Norah Jones and Keane? John Legend, John Lennon, Annie Lennox and Jerry Lee Lewis may wonder who the hell their musical neighbor, Lifehouse, is but thus far things seem calm enough.
I can't even say that Billy Joel is the musical poet of "my generation". I still fear that me and the rest of the 1968 children are unclaimed, generationally speaking. Musically, I missed the 60s and only became aware of so-named popular music in the mid-70s. I not only remember when MTV played music videos but, way before that, I remember thinking that Daryl Dragon was super dreamy, even with the hat.
Oh just shut up.
I'm about to shut this machine off for the evening, but I'd like to share this with you first. While it is clearly a song, I'd suggest reading it as a poem.
**********
In the beginning,
there was the cold and the night.
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light.
Man was triumphant,
armed with the faith and the will
that even the darkest ages couldn't kill.
Too many kingdoms,
too many flags on the field.
So many battles, so many wounds to be healed.
Time is relentless - only true love perseveres.
It's been a long time and now I'm with you
after two thousand years.
This is our moment
here at the crossroads of time.
We hope our children carry our dreams down the line.
They are the vintage.
What kind will they live?
Is this a curse or a blessing that we give?
Sometimes I wonder
why are we so blind to fate?
Without compassion, there can be no end to hate.
No end to sorrow caused by the same endless fears.
Why can't we learn from all we've been through
after two thousand years?
There will be miracles
after the last war is won.
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come.
Prophets and angels
gave us the power to see
what an amazing future there will be.
And, in the evening
after the fire and the light,
one thing is certain: nothing can hold back the night.
Time is relentless and, as the past disappears,
we're on the verge of all things new.
We are two thousand years.
**********
Every generation has their musical poet. There are those that say Bob Dylan holds this title, and maybe he does. I could never get past his voice to actually listen to (or even decipher, at times) what he was singing. I've been told it is moving and meaningful stuff. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about "what the hell did he just say?" to be moved.
Today, with close to 4,000 songs on my iTunes account, I have categories that possibly didn't exist when I was a child. What artist would I possibly categorize as "Funk Polka"? How would Scott Joplin feel to know that he's musically listed between Norah Jones and Keane? John Legend, John Lennon, Annie Lennox and Jerry Lee Lewis may wonder who the hell their musical neighbor, Lifehouse, is but thus far things seem calm enough.
I can't even say that Billy Joel is the musical poet of "my generation". I still fear that me and the rest of the 1968 children are unclaimed, generationally speaking. Musically, I missed the 60s and only became aware of so-named popular music in the mid-70s. I not only remember when MTV played music videos but, way before that, I remember thinking that Daryl Dragon was super dreamy, even with the hat.
Oh just shut up.
I'm about to shut this machine off for the evening, but I'd like to share this with you first. While it is clearly a song, I'd suggest reading it as a poem.
**********
In the beginning,
there was the cold and the night.
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light.
Man was triumphant,
armed with the faith and the will
that even the darkest ages couldn't kill.
Too many kingdoms,
too many flags on the field.
So many battles, so many wounds to be healed.
Time is relentless - only true love perseveres.
It's been a long time and now I'm with you
after two thousand years.
This is our moment
here at the crossroads of time.
We hope our children carry our dreams down the line.
They are the vintage.
What kind will they live?
Is this a curse or a blessing that we give?
Sometimes I wonder
why are we so blind to fate?
Without compassion, there can be no end to hate.
No end to sorrow caused by the same endless fears.
Why can't we learn from all we've been through
after two thousand years?
There will be miracles
after the last war is won.
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come.
Prophets and angels
gave us the power to see
what an amazing future there will be.
And, in the evening
after the fire and the light,
one thing is certain: nothing can hold back the night.
Time is relentless and, as the past disappears,
we're on the verge of all things new.
We are two thousand years.
**********
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