DC musings

Yes, it's been a while. A long while. Years.

Things change, and they remain the same.

Summer 1999. I'm in New Orleans. I remember, late at night, I could queue up "One Headlight" on my computer and just drown myself in it. It only works if you allow yourself to drown.

Tonight, I'm 30, in DC. It's Radiohead, "Reckoner."

I count it as a blessing that music moves me.

Helplessness

I don't know, but I find myself fascinated by the Va.Tech shootings. It's all so foreign. Motivations. Reactions. It's just all so removed from the ordinary.

And this statement haunts me. It's from a student that hid behind a desk as the shooter came in, shot his professor, and 8 students.

“I prayed that an invisible blanket of protection be placed around me.”

I cannot imagine that sort of situation. Where your life, your very being, is completely out of your hands. It's just utter desperation. I'm not very religious, but in such a situation, where you perceive yourself with no power, what else is there to do? It's hope, at its ugliest. It's hope borne of powerlessness. Hope as a last resort.

I think that's why it's so painful for me to see. It's realizing that everything is gone. And yet, it's still clinging. It's still somehow realizing how bad it is, wishing for something better, and realizing that the outcome is all fate, all happenstance.

How could you countenance that? Life and death as happenstance?

The end of the year, the end of saddam.

Listening to: The Heart is a Lonely Hunter -- The Anniversary

I'm much more comfortable writing than speaking. At my job, I have to explain a lot of things to a lot of people. Oh, to write it down. I can gather my thoughts, logically arrange my argument, put it on paper, then go back and correct it all. No pauses. No hiccups. No searching for the right word. Writing is sophisticated, gentlemanly.

And yet, it's imperfect. Never truly impetuous, always scripted. Never urgent.

I would argue that writing always steals something. Sometimes you have this exciting, interesting idea that appears in your head, and you need to blurt it out, capture, define it before it leaves. Writing cannot do that. In fact, this entry started as such a thought, impelled by a passage in Salinger's Franny and Zooey, about, well, the same thing.

And, you know, things just aren't coming out like they should. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I hope you get the gist, because that all I ever had to give, anyhow.

Past my bedtime

Listening to: I Will Play My Game Beneath the Spin Light -- Brand New

Is it wrong that all I can think to write about is work?

Well, at best, I have to go with a variation.

I had dinner tonight @ Chik-fil-a, post buying some last minute gifts for office staff. Pretending it was a breakfast run, I picked up a paper. When I finally got to the comics, I realized that I was skimming through them document-review style, instead of actually reading them.

Yes, work has destroyed my sense of humor.

I'm also reminding myself that "liking the people I work with" isn't a good enough reason to stay at a job. Because, you know, I like a lot of people. I'm not that particular, honestly.

I'm def. an acquaintance slut. Probably a friend slut, too. But not enough people want to be my friend for me to figure this out, for sure. Sad. Sad. Sad.

That, and he's got issues with voice modulation.

Listening to: Sister Winter by Sufjan Stevens

So, I work with this partner in our other office occasionally. Very nice guy. He calls to get updates on the case every day. Nice.

However, I've got a strange issue with him. We'll talk, he'll ask questions, I'll give answers, whatever. Then, I've answered his question, and I think we're done talking. But there's been no signal that the conversation's over. So, we just kind of sit there. I mean, seriously, no one says anything for about a minute. After the awkward silence is just too much to bear, I break down and say "uh, so, is there anything else I can update you on?", to which he'll reply "oh, no, I'm good."

It's v. awkward.

I think, next time, I'm going to wait him out. I will win. Oh yes, I will win.

Monday, 946p

I've had the pleasure of studying circadian rhythms. Although it's chiefly known as a theory pertaining to the natural ebb and flow of energy throughout the day, a corollary is that the rhythms can be manipulated. If you change the length of the day, organisms react. There's something of a hard reset whenever the sun comes up. If you're pulling an all nighter, it's always the hardest right before dawn... when the dawn comes, you get an artificial rush of energy, because your body is tricked into thinking it's awake.

It's just another example about how little control we exert over our lives.

Or maybe that's the skeptic in me.

I did read an interesting article in the Times this weekend; it's a variation on the above theme. Some highfalutin economist hath decreed that 90% of our economic condition depends on the country and circumstances we were born in. You run a hedge fun, eh? Not so much if you were born in Mongolia.

Listening to: Several Arrows Later, by Matt Pond PA.

The bottom line of the article was a wake-up call/plea. The idea: you're privileged. You make a shit ton of money. You're reading the NYTimes Magazine for fun, for free. Enjoy your wealth, but realize that most of it isn't because you're so freaking brilliant, but because you were born in the U.S. -- and, oh yeah, that means you should tithe.

Listening to: One More Rocket, by Andy Fairweather Low.

Nah, we have little to no control over our fate. But, I have much to complete control over my TiVo.

The universe rebalances itself again. Thank God.

One more thing

Through reading my past blog entries (on other blogs, natch).

I've discovered.

I mourn the passage of time.