So here I sit – awake as all hell but with vision bleary from exhaustion. Typing is an effort. My mind spins and spins. I munch homemade sauerkraut and sip ginger ale in an attempt to settle down to the point where I can lay still in bed and not bug redmed. She does not like to be bugged – especially during the designated sleep-period. She has her own troubles – more direct and visible than mine most days.
Two more business proposals out the door. A quarter million dollars of deliverables wrapped up in 30 pages of mostly-boilerplate. Will we get the work? Most likely. Would we have gotten it without my last minute of “oh my God, give me that,” edits? Who knows? The basic structure was there – the ideas were right, if vague. Most likely, the customers would have accepted the proposals but we would have been screwed, delayed, and stressed downstream because something was vaguely specified and under-funded.
Can the team do the work? Sure, no doubt. These two even look like they would be fun to work on. Neat science. But can we do it on schedule without getting still further backed up? That’s the unknown.
Somehow, through some weird and ironic twist of fate – nine families (17 adults and 14 kids) rely on me – at least in part – to stir the electronic embers hard enough this evening that the coals fan to life one more time this year. In the morning, perhaps, they will wake to a hot cook-fire and a lured beast in the hunting grounds. At that point, they will go and do the deed. I’ll help, maybe, a little – but mostly I’ll wonder whether this late night, like the others, is a useful contribution or just a parasitic scam.
Would all of this have gone down without me? Probably. Do I make it better? Maybe – for a few people.
Ah. There we go. “Guero” by Beck. That’s what we were looking for.
I’m like some sort of zen stress-puppy. My coping skills are fully deployed every day. I take breaks in which I walk to the coffee shop and back without checking email or twitter. I breathe deeply. I insist on a shower and clean clothing before lunch. I achieve INBOX 0 satori each afternoon. I exercise to exhaustion in the evenings – or else I unplug with friends, food, conversation, and Starcraft. I have hobbies, a beautiful wife, a house more comfortable than I need … and yet the backlog of shit grows and I wake most mornings to a feeling of vague dread and being behind.
Perhaps the Indigo Girls can help: “Joanie left for South Africa a few years ago / And then Beth took a job all the way over on the West Coast / Seems I’m heavier by the year and heavier by the load / Why do we hurtle ourselves through every inch of time and space? / I’m -a- sit around some corn and rock and rest in place. / With every lesson learned, a line upon your beautiful face. / We’ll admit ourselves one day: These memories we’ll trace.”
The question in the front of my mind is “where does this train go?” I see my situation for what it is. I’ve got a great gig in the middle of the worst job drought in decades. I’ve achieved work-nirvana in a lot of ways. I work from home. My reporting hierarchy is “flexible” to the point of laughter. I do not worry about making rent or buying food. Nobody is shooting at me. Nobody takes my stuff. I have the flexibility to worry about the ethics and sustainability of how I live and to bitch about the government, out loud, without fear.
As his holiness points out: If these material things were the source of happiness – rich people would be happy all the time. They are not, so there must be more to it than that.
The goal for the business this end-of-year is to begin the push towards the new structure. Six years in this gig. I’ve risen from “employee number one” to directing all our activities. Everyone is looking at me, expecting me to tell them where we go next. Well, almost everyone. Most of them are looking at me to be sure to win that fight too … and to win it so smoothly that the team stays together and productive through the process.
Screw it: Perhaps my dreams will give some answers – but more likely they will include being chased, onstage, on the mat and out of my league, just on the edge – all without pants on. I haven’t talked to the ancestors in my dreams for a while now. Too busy outrunning bears with my knickers twisted around my ankles.
Thanks for listening. Me? I’m typing this stone cold sight unseen – forehead on the desk – Godsmack “cryin’ like a bitch” blasting in my headphones. See you tomorrow.
