I installed Oracle on Unix. I'm half done installing it on a second box. I'm doing basic LDAP searches. I feel totally fucking out of my element and it's fantastic. I've consumed entirely too much caffeine this week. I've worked ten-hour days, but not because it was crunch time, no, not crunch time. This is the honeymoon period, when everything is new and exciting and even when it's stressful it's okay. I'm learning new acronyms and meeting people and playing with my laptop. I'm going to meetings. I'm taking notes. I'm nodding and smiling all the time. I'm pretending I understand because eventually I'm bound to understand. I just have to wait for the disparity between what I know and what I've learned to balance.
I received another rejection letter. I saw the familiar envelope -- it felt too thick -- I tore it open, and saw the fateful words, "Dear Playwright:" You know "Dear Playwright" translates to "you're a loser." Try it on BabelFish. You'll see what I mean.
Speaking of fish, I watched "Big Fish" last night for a second time. I'm blown away by it. The dialogue is incredibly satisfying. The movie had me at the circus scene. At first I was weirded out by Ewan McGregor having a Southern accent, but it grew on me. Like mold. Like the Hunchback's hump. Like toe jam.
I have big dreams about all the things I can do now that I'm making more money. Mostly it involves moving to Washington and buying a big house with an office, a connected library, a second office, a gym, a pool, a guest room, and underground tunnels. It involves sitting at a computer all day on my own terms. It involves that ember you keep for later -- the official carrier of spirit without the fancy receptacle -- it involves travel, it involves seeing the world, it involves being naïve about the big things and savvy about the small things, it involves donating all my old clothes to charity, buying nice things that require dry-cleaning and paying off my debt.
When I was girl I thought, I'll marry rich. Then as I became older I thought, screw marrying rich, I'll be rich. It can't be that hard if all those other assholes can do it. What do they have that I don't -- besides money? They've got focus. They've got persistence, discipline, stocks, an inheritance, and a trust fund. I could go on...
I've got my little patch of sky. No one else has this same patch of sky. I've got this view of the ivy on the fence out my window. I've got this perspective, sitting in my chair, drinking beer -- which no one else shares -- like fingerprints, like breath.
We're entirely too concerned with immortality. But we don't ask the big questions. Not like children. When's the last time I looked at the stars? When's the last time I laid on my back and watched the clouds? I have a memory of Santa Cruz Island, hiking for hours with two friends. We walked to the edge of a cliff. We laid down in the tall yellow grass -- ants crawling across our feet -- we put our hands behind our heads, and we stared at the clouds. It was quiet, except for the sound the wind made, bending the grass against one another, scratching our legs and displacing the ants. I have this memory ... I saw shapes in the clouds. I felt the planet shift beneath me. I felt it swirl. And I was conscious of our spinning, our axis, and our travels around the big picture. The sun burning our arms and legs, the clouds, the sea below, the waves crashing into the cliffs, the hot, dry wind, the water bottle resting against my hips, the heat of my socks against my feet tucked deep inside my sneakers, the light, blue sky above, and the dirt under my fingernails. I was hyper aware of all of it. But these moments make me sad, because they happen and then they're over. Can't I just appreciate it for the moment? Why does it cut? It was just a day on my back with the clouds. Just another day.
I say to BF sometimes, I say, what did you do today that counted towards your goal? Of course first you must define a goal. Mine is to be a writer. And everyday you must answer that question to yourself: what did I do today that counts? Of all the pomp and circumstance, what's the marrow? Show me the marrow. It's a bad day when I have no answer but excuses.
Bad day. No treat for you.
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