Being an angel.
Forget any romantic notions you may harbor, this is a grimy, thankless, often futile gig. We have far more in common with beat down, noirish detectives than with the idealized creatures of light with rippling muscles and a fifteen foot wingspan. What do we need wings for, we're spiritual beings.
City angels. We got it worst of all. Angels in third world countries, nations under oppressive regimes, nations at war - those angels have real jobs to do, real pain to comfort, real suffering to console. Me, in the city? I got people late for work praying about traffic. I got cheating husbands praying their wives don't find out. I got vanity cases praying their nose job (their third and last one, they promise) turns out okay.
And there ain't no gratitude, none whatsoever. I help someone find their car keys or their cell phone - big deal. My friend down in Darfur, he saves a family from rebel or government soldiers and prayers of thanks abound.
But I wouldn't trade places with them even if I could. See, the trick is to find the meaning and the joy in the place where you are, not where you want to be. And how do I do that?
Couple weeks ago there was this kid, Andy. He starts praying all this stuff about Playstation this, X-Box that. I mean this kid is already spoiled dirty rotten stink. He throws away more toys in a month than most kids (even other middle class ones like him) get to own their whole lives. There are only three toys that Andy has kept for more than a year:
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Going Postal
Jim goes to work everyday at seven. He works in the shipping department of a metal fabrication shop. His main job is boxing up orders before they're released onto the world. At this shop, there are two lines. One line is made up of relatively standardized parts - housings, couplings, nicks and nacks. This is the company's bread and butter. The other line is made up of one-off specialty items, custom made pieces for customers with deep pockets, tight tolerances, and a lust for the impossible. These orders come in all shapes and sizes from granule sized gears to garbage truck sized monoliths.
The packing department for the second line never knows what they're going to get from week to week. It's a challenging job and they often have to work closely with the engineers to make sure that weak points are addressed and that nothing gets stressed in a way it's not designed for. The shippers in this department even give suggestions to the engineers to make for less damage prone pieces and the engineers really do take their ideas into account.
Jim works for the first line where there are standardized boxes for the standardized parts. There's a standardized workflow and from year to year, even the level of orders seems to have its own standardized pattern.
The packing department for the second line never knows what they're going to get from week to week. It's a challenging job and they often have to work closely with the engineers to make sure that weak points are addressed and that nothing gets stressed in a way it's not designed for. The shippers in this department even give suggestions to the engineers to make for less damage prone pieces and the engineers really do take their ideas into account.
Jim works for the first line where there are standardized boxes for the standardized parts. There's a standardized workflow and from year to year, even the level of orders seems to have its own standardized pattern.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Letter From Burma
Back in Seattle after a week and a half trip to Myanmar, Arnold and his wife Ruth are glad to be home in their apartment overlooking the Puget Sound. They're eager to return to the comfortable familiarity of their bed but they want to throw the first load into the washer before sleeping off the jet lag and so they're hastily unpacking.
As Ruth is unfurling a long shawl, purchased at a local flea market, a small piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. At first she thinks it's merely a receipt or some random piece of trash. She bends over to pick it up, intending to toss it into the nearest trash can but what, from a distance, appeared to be a random black pattern upon closer inspection turns out to be very fine, very small handwriting.
"Take a look at this," she says, holding the sheet close to her face, examining the writing.
Arnold throws another pair of shorts and a soiled shirt into the laundry basket then walks over to see what his wife is holding in her hands.
"It's some kind of writing, it's in Burmese, I have no idea what it is," she says, handing the sheet over to him.
"Maybe it's from the hotel, like a token of thanks."
"But why would it be in Burmese? And look closer. It's hand written. See, you can see the indentations, you can tell this someone wrote this."
"Well, honey, I can't read Burmese either. It's probably a mistake. Come on, I want to get to bed, I'm so tired and my back. . ."
As Ruth is unfurling a long shawl, purchased at a local flea market, a small piece of paper falls out and flutters to the floor. At first she thinks it's merely a receipt or some random piece of trash. She bends over to pick it up, intending to toss it into the nearest trash can but what, from a distance, appeared to be a random black pattern upon closer inspection turns out to be very fine, very small handwriting.
"Take a look at this," she says, holding the sheet close to her face, examining the writing.
Arnold throws another pair of shorts and a soiled shirt into the laundry basket then walks over to see what his wife is holding in her hands.
"It's some kind of writing, it's in Burmese, I have no idea what it is," she says, handing the sheet over to him.
"Maybe it's from the hotel, like a token of thanks."
"But why would it be in Burmese? And look closer. It's hand written. See, you can see the indentations, you can tell this someone wrote this."
"Well, honey, I can't read Burmese either. It's probably a mistake. Come on, I want to get to bed, I'm so tired and my back. . ."
Mathematics
He was taking a break from his formulas. He was working on a new branch of combutronic mathematics, a specialization of a specialized field of obscure number theory. Tonight was not his night. He wasn't making any progress whatsoever. His room was a mess of crumpled sheets of paper, stacks of books many of them propped open to pages he hoped would give him a lead, some way into a crack in the brick wall he had painted himself into.
Out of his dorm, in the cool of the night air, in the middle of the campus courtyard, he went for a walk.
Out of his dorm, in the cool of the night air, in the middle of the campus courtyard, he went for a walk.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Love For Granted
They were married for eight years and had dated for two years before. Eric didn't know if Janet felt the same but he realized recently that their relationship had dissolved into routine.
The realization hit him a few days ago. It was a Thursday morning. He was driving to work and he caught himself daydreaming about Karen, the new temp who was helping to move data into the new HR database. Much of the process had been automated but due to a glitch in the transfer, parts of the records for all four hundred or so employees of the Branch Foundation had to be keyed in by hand.
It wasn't the first time he had thought about a woman at work. It was always innocent enough, the thoughts never went beyond imaginary conversations, they were never of an intimate nature. Perhaps that difficult for some to believe but despite the stereotype, there are some in the male gender whose libido is more subdued. Eric was one with this trait and in addition, he took the vows of marriage as binding and un-negotiable. While he felt it wise to never say "one would never," he believed that he would never go so far as to cheat on his wife.
Now it must be stated here that Eric was not one who had ever been good at meeting women, even back before he was married. He was not a particularly good looking man though he made a point to dress well enough so that his wardrobe, while not compensating through excessive flair, made it clear to the world that he cared about appearances. He communicated well enough with members of both genders but if he happened to find a certain woman especially attractive, he found himself stammering, at a loss for words, graceless and clumsy.
He was all too well aware of these traits. In his single years before he met Janet, it was these very characteristics that frustrated him to no end for they made it nearly impossible for him to ask women out on dates. In fact, it was Janet who, he found out years into the relationship, went out of her way to make herself available to him, for him to ask her out and even with all this help, it was a mutual friend who finally arranged for them to meet for dinner.
Once past the first few dates, he found conversation easy enough. It was clear to them both that they shared something unique, a kind of ease with one another that made the sometimes awkward transition from casual acquaintance to lovers a seamless and effortless one.
The realization hit him a few days ago. It was a Thursday morning. He was driving to work and he caught himself daydreaming about Karen, the new temp who was helping to move data into the new HR database. Much of the process had been automated but due to a glitch in the transfer, parts of the records for all four hundred or so employees of the Branch Foundation had to be keyed in by hand.
It wasn't the first time he had thought about a woman at work. It was always innocent enough, the thoughts never went beyond imaginary conversations, they were never of an intimate nature. Perhaps that difficult for some to believe but despite the stereotype, there are some in the male gender whose libido is more subdued. Eric was one with this trait and in addition, he took the vows of marriage as binding and un-negotiable. While he felt it wise to never say "one would never," he believed that he would never go so far as to cheat on his wife.
Now it must be stated here that Eric was not one who had ever been good at meeting women, even back before he was married. He was not a particularly good looking man though he made a point to dress well enough so that his wardrobe, while not compensating through excessive flair, made it clear to the world that he cared about appearances. He communicated well enough with members of both genders but if he happened to find a certain woman especially attractive, he found himself stammering, at a loss for words, graceless and clumsy.
He was all too well aware of these traits. In his single years before he met Janet, it was these very characteristics that frustrated him to no end for they made it nearly impossible for him to ask women out on dates. In fact, it was Janet who, he found out years into the relationship, went out of her way to make herself available to him, for him to ask her out and even with all this help, it was a mutual friend who finally arranged for them to meet for dinner.
Once past the first few dates, he found conversation easy enough. It was clear to them both that they shared something unique, a kind of ease with one another that made the sometimes awkward transition from casual acquaintance to lovers a seamless and effortless one.
Friday, March 23, 2007
The Companionship of Cigarettes
In lieu of companionship, of friendship, of a lover, he smokes clove cigarettes. He smoked them the way a troubadour plays his guitar, the way the barfly drinks a bottle of whisky, the way an accountant arranges sums on a spreadsheet.
It was hardly an addiction unless one counts one or two cigarettes three or four times a week as an addiction. He certainly wasn't a chain smoker. He was lucky (so to speak) if he smoked a whole pack in the course of a month.
It was for companionship - a way to be alone but not just standing by himself. In an odd sort of way, standing around smoking a cigarette made him more invisible, anonymous than if he were to stand in the same place without a cigarette. That was part of his reasoning, but it was also because of the warmth, the sweet, tight taste of smoke. The tiny buzz that made him feel illuminated, as if he were radiating a faint blue aura.
It was an odd sort of love affair, he knew, but in his shyness, his cowardice around women he was attracted to, these cigarettes were a guilty comfort.
Most of his friends didn't know. He didn't want to be bothered with the questions and the practical, all to obvious health warnings. The few friends who did know thought he had stopped a long time ago.
It was also a kind of rebellion. He wasn't one to impose himself on others and beyond that, it wasn't uncommon for him to feel taken advantage of or taken for granted. These cigarettes were a quiet, secret way for him to tell all of his free loading friends to fuck off and leave him alone.
He loved his cigarettes but he knew well enough to keep them at a distance, to not love them too much. He didn't know where the line between casual smoking and can't quit smoking was drawn but he wanted to stay well away from that line. To this end, it's not that he limited himself to a certain number of cigarettes a day. A limit implies restraint and one only needs to restrain ones self from something one would otherwise indulge in. Smoking wasn't that for him.
So there was no per-day limit. Unrestrained on his worst days the most he ever indulged in was four in one day but that was rare. To keep himself far away from that line, he just made sure to resist the want of a cigarette at least as often as he gave into it and since he had never gotten to the point where he NEEDED to smoke, this blurry rule of thumb kept him safe enough.
It was hardly an addiction unless one counts one or two cigarettes three or four times a week as an addiction. He certainly wasn't a chain smoker. He was lucky (so to speak) if he smoked a whole pack in the course of a month.
It was for companionship - a way to be alone but not just standing by himself. In an odd sort of way, standing around smoking a cigarette made him more invisible, anonymous than if he were to stand in the same place without a cigarette. That was part of his reasoning, but it was also because of the warmth, the sweet, tight taste of smoke. The tiny buzz that made him feel illuminated, as if he were radiating a faint blue aura.
It was an odd sort of love affair, he knew, but in his shyness, his cowardice around women he was attracted to, these cigarettes were a guilty comfort.
Most of his friends didn't know. He didn't want to be bothered with the questions and the practical, all to obvious health warnings. The few friends who did know thought he had stopped a long time ago.
It was also a kind of rebellion. He wasn't one to impose himself on others and beyond that, it wasn't uncommon for him to feel taken advantage of or taken for granted. These cigarettes were a quiet, secret way for him to tell all of his free loading friends to fuck off and leave him alone.
He loved his cigarettes but he knew well enough to keep them at a distance, to not love them too much. He didn't know where the line between casual smoking and can't quit smoking was drawn but he wanted to stay well away from that line. To this end, it's not that he limited himself to a certain number of cigarettes a day. A limit implies restraint and one only needs to restrain ones self from something one would otherwise indulge in. Smoking wasn't that for him.
So there was no per-day limit. Unrestrained on his worst days the most he ever indulged in was four in one day but that was rare. To keep himself far away from that line, he just made sure to resist the want of a cigarette at least as often as he gave into it and since he had never gotten to the point where he NEEDED to smoke, this blurry rule of thumb kept him safe enough.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Love in Seasons
It was Spring when we met and fell quickly in love. The blooms were beginning to bud on the naked trees and as they burst into bloom it appeared as if there were fireworks tethered to the ground by branches, echoing and celebrating the love that I felt exploding in my heart, filling me with a radiant kind of energy that made me feel that nothing in this world was impossible for the two of us. I told her this and she smiled that pursed, close-lipped smile that first attracted me to her.