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Tuesday May 30, 2000
"The price one pays for pursuing any profession or calling is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side." James Balwin, Nobody Knows My Name, 1961
South Congress graffitti
uncommon hare
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back to the grind Send off party for a couple of folks who are retiring. Hot dogs, hamburgers, thoughts of one's own possibilities for retirement. When can one walk away from the pay, the benefits? I hesitate to say 'the psychic income.' I quit my job in 1972 and didn't work for five months. I found out that I did not miss working at all and made living my work. "You will miss working," people say. "You don't realize how much you depend on working to define yourself," people claim. When I was 24, I found out this was not true. Not for me. Twenty-eight years later, I still work. Make no mistake: I do it for the money. Which is not to say that there aren't days when it is really interesting. Which is not to say that I haven't met great people who are interested not just in computer programs but in words and art and life. It's just to say, it's not the most efficient way to collect the physic income. There are lots of things in the way. Lots of hoops and obstacles. Plenty of unpleasant people. Make no mistake. You do it the man's way for the man's money. So...I worked. I imposed myself on a meeting. I later wondered why. Not that I didn't need some of the information. But I don't think I did anyone any good. Perhaps I need to return to more detailed work. When you do a design, some code or find and fix a bug, there is a feeling you have done something of some worth. (Although, the relative quality is always suspect. It's not exactly like building a wall.) Came home and Forrest made tomato and mozzarella salad and salmon with fresh dill. It was good and quite a nice change from my ridiculous lunch of hamburger, hotdog, brownies and iced tea. First hamburger and hotdog I've had in a while. I'm a bit depressed. Because these colleagues reached escape velocity? (A turn of phrase I stole from my friend Sam the other night, speaking of his escape from the Beaumont/Port Arthur area.) Because a three-day weekend opens up the possibility of being in control of one's own time? Because a fire ant or two apparently found their way up my leg and left some handsome blisters that occasionally throb? No matter. It will pass. Just writing them down makes these complaints seem silly. Journals are therapy. I have been hesitant of late to discuss other journals. Several of the people in the ones I read are friends. Most became friends through the journals. I think this is a great thing, I really do. It reminds me of my first (non-work) 'online community.' Austin Arts. My friend Curtis and I agreed on Sunday that it was special because it was the first time we'd achieved community with such a diverse group and felt so close. But I can't decide if this journal, for me, is diluted by referring to other journals. I don't live in a trailer and wait tables (this is my current favorite) or live alone and work at home in Northern California. Or live in Connecticutt or New York City or Cork or Venice, California. Nor the British countryside. It's not me. It's these other, probably far more interesting people. I like these people and respect their lives. I've been keeping a list of ones I like on my links page. Why discuss them in these pages? Is it a human obsession to make the WEB a web? Is it the same as linking to the bendos site? Linking because you can? Is my purpose here to link with people or to dump out my life until some truth comes out? Or is my purpose to just do something every day to prove I'm alive? And it's funny. You would think I'd get interested in Pamie's site since she's in Austin, wouldn't you? But mostly I see her when she turns up in the Northeast journals. So I kick myself and read her a little and she says she's moving. OK, maybe then I'll pay attention. All of which is to say...I have nothing to say. Tomorrow I'll drive to Houston. I'll probably have a lot to say when it's a pain in the butt to post. |
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