july 31, 2003 - 18:11 - just a perfect day
with ambient temperature nearing 100', the cold sweat of true panic
is almost inviting. still, folly such as this is not quite
what i had in mind...
jack: dontcallmedontwritemeandreadthefuckingmanual
jack: IMFUCKINGDONE
jack: i cannotstand customers
jack: HERE
jack: HAVE SOME LYE
jack: play with it.
jack: IT's A COOL CUCUMBERMASK!
jack: PUT IT ON YOUR FACE!
bosslady:
bosslady: lol
bosslady: i'm so sorry.
bosslady: maybe i should have layed you off!
:: GULP ::
jack: er, oops. that was the wrong IM window.
was supposed to go to $coworker
bosslady: yeah. right.
bosslady: i
jack: er, no, it was. *ack* soz.
bosslady: 'm sure!
bosslady: hey!
bosslady: you gotta share with me too!
jack: oh, i do. ususally not with that much color...
..........
'haha. that's funny. he just ranted to
his boss.'
seriously, it is not that i think that she can't handle it,
(quite the opposite, in fact); it's not that she's not smart enough
to perceive this sort of emotion without it being voiced;
it's not even that she would misinterpret it now that it has been said;
it's just....
what an embarassing transgression of the manager-managee relationship.
the silent, accepted, and understood agreement between coworkers
to mask such abrasive emotion in the work place, venting
only after-hours, and in dark corners. (if at all).
sure, there are some days you really loathe your job, it happens to
everybody. --of course, this does not provide free license to
walk around broadcasting the fact.
water under the bridge, i guess.
admittedly, as i type this, a couple hours removed from the embarassment
of the original exchange, i have to admit, it was sort of liberating.
i'll be sure to remember how 'liberated' i feel when i wake up at
11am and walk my unshaven and redundant ass o'er to the unemployment office.
july 24, 2003 - 17:39 - exit music
going old school this afternoon:
we both know i need this too much
only i know that it's got to stop
but i can't keep my anger up
change it, it's your job,
change it, it's your job
now i'm stuck
i'm stuck...
--excerpt from "capital letters," by ned's atomic dustbin
july 24, 2003 - 08:17 - spiderwebs
the remote worker, is by defintion, remote. in radio shack
terms, that's a 5' wire and a control box. bluetooth, about 8' and
a nice battery charge, (assuming line of sight).
historically speaking, remote might be just across the river, or
'just through those trees, o'er there.'
--considered in emotional terms of a failed relationship,
remote can be an unchartable, even on an infinite plane. (e.g.
my mother does not remotely understand the motives of my father)...
professionally speaking, 'remote' can simultaneously be a godsend from
micromanagement, or a sentencing in perceived value.
that said,
it is the dark times, those days when clouds hang in cuba and people meet
in small packs, murmuring, that the remote worker truly understands
remote.
passive information channels like cubespeak, breakroom banter, and
bathroom stall conversations expire as conduits, leaving the remote
worker seperated both physically and emotionally.
evolving, as all life must, the modern remote worker learns to become an
information spider. it spins its web, carefully constructing new
channels via new mediums; embracing technology to facilitate information
flow that is historically benign.
in absence of the author's face, emotions are lost in email;
sarcasm misinterpreted, great wit condemned as sophomoric reverie.
channels must then be constructed in complex patterns...
months of observing how news migrates through these different mediums,
how each snippet follows different paths, and is in turn altered by them.
multiple signals allow triangulation, and with triangulation,
the information spider learns to judge distance, probability, and veracity.
it becomes clear that the more exposed web you lay, the more
signals you catch; a larger dataset to interpret: quantify, qualify.
i am an information spider. my web: multinational, multimedia,
multilingual. it is a triumph. ceasar would shudder
with envy; napolean, powerless in his lust. it is this grand,
yet, it's just a shadow of it's former self.
my web: tattered, torn, improbably patched, and i, sitting quietly
in the center. it's dancing today, dancing on every line, and
the informationspider wonders if this new wind is strong enough
to blow it all away.
close your eyes. close the conference windows, the webcams,
turn down the ringer, and ignore your email.
breathe in, breathe out.
july 22, 2003 - 09:20 - letting you down easy
'as you are probably aware, the company is in serious financial pain
right now. we need to ensure that we are able to meet our
ongoing financial obligations while still providing a financial
buffer for employees that are affected by our need to reduce staff.
in order to meet our financial obligations, we need to reduce
the amount of money that we pay out in redundancy situations... '
...you know that any week that starts with an email like
this is going to be fun. really.
july 19, 2003 - 23:10 - art for the unenthused
| this afternoon, i discovered an exotic sound quite unlike any other:
the fragile, yet blunt resonance of fiberglass and epoxy
being scraped forcibly from an expensive helmet by greedy pavement.
closer, perhaps, to synthetic porcelain than that of tupperware, i
revel in the exquisite splintering even as my body continues its
arc over this pivot, driven by its own reckless eagerness to
comply with gravity.
| 
|
..........
having missed my opportunity for tracktime during the 'vintage days' at PIR,
i had opted to make lemonade, and spend the afternoon reading a book,
(sleeping on the porch with a book on my chest). it was in this state
that my mobile's sudden vibration roused my reclining form to swat blindly
at the improbable invasion of privacy going on in my pants.
news from ptown: the fog of administriva was lifting, paperwork had finally
arrived, and jack's recent
acquisition was free from its pseudo-escrow imprisonment.
with a haste known only to virgin adolescent males on prom night, i collected
my gear, paperwork, tools, a small collection of scooter consumables (spare
parts), and set out for downtown.
much to my relief, i found her just as beautiful this hazy afternoon
as the night we first met; eye candy to ease the the time spent
tightening or replacing, (as appropriate), deteriorated control cables
in the wavy lines of light gliding up from an overheated parking lot.
one litre of water, one 20 oz. mountain dew, and a healthy dosage of
gojo passed before i felt her ready for our first trip together.
a simple half-kick, easy spark, the motor purrs to life: all lambrettas
should have electronic ignition.
from the shop, down the main drag. i'm careful to slow when passing the
tinted window-fronts of downtown buildings, eager to catch glimpses of
this exotic and unfamiliar form that idles kindly beneathe me.
done with the strip, i turn right at the light, head west into the hills.
i've ridden about 2 miles now, and the incline slides from passive
to agressive. leaning forward, i whisper breathily to her speedo,
urge her forward...
forward into the critical juncture between reality and potential, or
perhaps motive and intent. --the engine seizes with such ferocity
that one might not say she merely stopped, but instead recoiled backwards from
the shock of the event.
this is jack, condemned in an instant by the offhand mantra of a man
named after a fruit cookie: 'objects in motion, tend to stay in motion,
unless acted upon by an external or unbalanced force.'
this is jack, pulling the clutch, even as legs pitch up, up and
over hands that hold stubbornly to bars that decrease in importance
reciprocally to inversion.
.........
i've always been fond of the elegance that single-use stages of large
rockets demonstrate whilst tumbling from the heavens. elements
carefully constructed with a purpose so singlularily defined that when
they exhaust their fuel supply, they exhaust their utility, and ultimately
exhaust their very existence.
it is in the fireball of reentry; a whirlwind imposed by the
superheated drag of air particles against a surface that these
meticulously designed stages don't simply cease to be, but instead,
metamorph into something else altogether.
..........
in the end, the years of experience miscalulationg height, speed, rotation
and velocity whilst feigning proficiency in skateboarding does
teach the body how to properly roll out almost any forward-moving
'accident.' --it is with this instinctual, faster than-thinking
reaction that my body rolls forward, pops again onto its feet, and runs
out the rest of the momentum unscathed.
a volkswagen golf swerves to avoid me as i walk back to her tragic
form: original sheet metal so pure and white, her reclining shape carves
stark angles framed against the dark incline of pavement.
it dawns on me that i've never been moved in this way before,
and i laugh uneasily, (the way someone who has just tripped in front of his
peers might laugh), as i lean over to pull her up.
what a revolution! what personality!
--this experience has just confirmed for fact that which i could only
previously assume: this scooter is different, a passion and vitality
and intensity all her own.
in a nutshell, her demonstrated willingness to toss me violently down
the road demands a respect that could only make me love her more.
.........
in retrospect, it is only the lament of my spent helmet that
darkens this experience. its delicate surface, perforated so
barbarically by the high coefficient of friction intentionally
engineered into the pavement.
the recollection of crystalline exasperation as its internal structure
splinters to dissipate force throughout its form, as if exhaling
at the opportunity to finally become that which it was intended.
this afternoon, i experienced an exotic sound quite unlike any other:
the fragile, yet blunt resonance of an object transforming irreversibly
from one form to another.
$450 of safety potential reduced (or evolved?) in an instant into a
kind of performance art; i place it reverently on my mantle, and begin
scheming to replace.
july 05, 2003 - 07:45 - what you don't know can hurt
did you know that it is a misdemeanor crime in oregon to even
possess a manner of firework or ordinance capable of self-propulsion,
and explosion from any point above the ground?
(it's ok, i didn't either)
kind of a paradox, actually: should you happen to have it, you can't simply
dispose of it, it's a misdemeanor to move it and it's a felony to destroy it, (as is its very nature).¹
not that the latter point makes much sense, either: seems pretty obvious
that there are far less people to send screaming and flaming into the night
at 1000' than there are standing bright-eyed at ground level.
then again, lawmakers tend to have a penchant for defending the unobvious.
¹ do not try to explain this paradox of legality to
anybody who informs you of the civil burden mentioned above; your
case is probably stillborn by their over-inflated sense of moral right.
instead, simply release interest in, (i.e. launch), what ordinance you
have, and run quickly in the direction that they are not...
july 02, 2003 - 16:41 - black comedy
as a recent round of redundancies adversely affected the sum of our group,
the remainder of my peers worked to schedule a kind of "wake" for the
difference.
based on an improbable volume of experience, this sort of event is
customarily contrived by a few core elements: specifically, some manner of
consumption (last supper), a lowering of inhibitions (drinking and/or lost
sense of professional obligation), and entertainment (in it's most elemental
form, usually related to simple slander of the company).
it was with some surprise that i realized that the aforementioned peers
had decided to choose the debut of 'T3: Rise of the Machines' as the
after-dinner entertainment for this particular event.
of course, during the conference call when i pointed out how truly surprised
i was at their sardonic sophistication in black humour, i was met with
little more than heavy silence.
did they not realize they were taking our (improbably) redundant buddy
to a film called the terminator for his wake? --in
fact, is it not more macabre that this manner of oversight could
actually happen by accident?
it could be brilliant, it could be a farse. i'm too far away to tell.
( more )
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