All At Once
Thursday. Where oh where has this week gone? Work is picking up, finally, the Y2K gorilla no longer the lone eight hundred pound cop directing traffic in and out of the IT shop, and the word around the company being we have some crash course catching up with the technology to accomplish. Those are words we've been waiting for and we'll know soon enough if this translates into money and new projects, one of those projects belonging to me, deedle-dee-dee. Time to tighten up, my son. Time to get back up to speed and see what it's like to work at the old velocity. See if it sucks up my every available minute, late nights and long weekends. I'll worry about it later, I suppose, but I don't want to get sloppy and lose this writing time. (This sounds like one of my pep talks, doesn't it? Encouraging words on a bridge with bungee cords wrapped round my ankles. What am I doing on a bridge with bungee cords wrapped round my ankles?)
A short recap: Wuss is better, eating the prescription cat food, but still peeing the random puddle when I return home from work. I don't think he's losing it at other times, since he's using the (automated) kitty litter box as there are the usual clumps and bumps in the basket.
I'm OK, the mouth is still numb, but less numb (I think). Maybe a few more months and I won't really notice it. I said I was going to lose a couple of pounds last week and I did, thereby turning this screed into a dieter's journal. Art, Life and Jenny Craig. Drove to work the first two days of this week, the first time I've driven into work two days in a row, but I walked in yesterday and today and that's good. Stupid, maybe, but good. This is all wonderful stuff, now, isn't it.
I was checking my referral log last week when I discovered a link from another journal
written early in 1998, saying she'd read two new journals that day, mine and Lifestyle Tips For The Dead, one journal (mine) being written by an old fart who worked in the computer business prattling on about his dead ordinary day to day existence and the other, a fellow who, um, had a more exotic reality that included an interest in younger women. I think Grinder might have liked that. The exotic reality part. And I? Well, that's pretty accurate. Shooting the occasional photograph, walking back and forth to work, a cat who can't hold his water, high living eating lunch in Oakland every day during the week at the cheaper establishments, fast living on the weekends driving over to Berkeley for the occasional movie and coffee in the mornings at a sidewalk cafe. The excitement, the exhilaration. All at once. It's difficult for one man to handle it.
This isn't a complaint. There is a certain buzz you get from comfortably numb. And that lady who found my journal early last year spoke well of it, the ordinary day to day stuff. I'm just not quite certain I'm comfortable in the middle of this, not quite certain I'm not kidding myself. There's no such thing as standing still, after all, work, play or whatever. Spring is coming. Another birthday next month, the Picean month, the month of dreamers. And fools. And photographers.
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