It's finally happened. I had my Office Space acronym moment and it's as bewildering as I imagined it would be.
Among my usual emails this morning, I received an SLT schedule. This was a follow-up on the SLT & ELT from last April, which are clearly illustrated through a delightful color-coded scheme that is easy to follow. I was then instructed to await the next SLT update that would be on its way in the next few weeks.
I looked at the email addressees, and noted that they were all executive administrative assistants. I also assumed they all knew what this was about, and that I was probably the only one who didn't know what the f*** an SLT was. Stunning Latino Tata's? System Lord Teatimes? Hell if I know. My choices are to either wait and see if more clues appear in future emails, or I can ask the assistant to one of the higher-ups who has a sense of humor and would at least find my confusion entertaining.
Strapping Lads of Toronto? Sinister Lilac Tongues? Oy. I don't know.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Muse
He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.
David is the real thing. For years he has pursued screenwriting and actually gotten some real attention for his efforts. It’s unnerving to know this when we discuss writing, though he does treat me as an equal. I still see myself as a pretender, who frequently talks about being an author of many brilliant works of literature, but still can’t seem to finish anything. So tonight, he asks me how my efforts are going. I tell him.
“Damn, you know I was going to write tonight but I left my laptop at work.”
“That’s no excuse. You can write on anything. And what about that room you have upstairs? Do you go up there much?”
I cringe as he says this, because I haven’t and he’s about to make a very good point.
“That’s a really cool room. If I had a room like that I’d be up there writing all the time.”
The last person I expected any support from was David. I guess I can’t seem to let go of the guy I went to high school with who was sarcastic and incredibly insensitive most of the time – a typical honor roll nerd guy. This was his personality up to our early 30’s, and I would actually go for long periods of time not contacting him because of some offense, which he still refers to as the “anti-David” periods. This would last up to six months, during which I wouldn’t respond to his emails or instant messages or simply wouldn’t acknowledge him when we crossed paths. He’d get the message, though he would call me petty later on after I forgave him.
But I could never stay mad at him. He was David. He was a good person who made me laugh with his hilarious mock German and intimidating intellect. I knew we would be friends until we were old and decrepit, sipping our peach Metamucils during Bingo and being quietly content with the other’s presence. That’s just how it was going to be.
And he’s been full of surprises.
The first occurred last November. I decided to take part in “National Novel Writing Month” which is sponsored annually by Nanowrimo out of San Francisco. Basically, you’re given one month to write a novel of 50,000 words, and if you reach your goal you print the winner’s certificate (which is absolutely delightful to look at) and feel really quite proud of yourself. Also, you get congratulations from all the people who knew you were doing it.
I wasn’t going to tell David, but I ended up including him in the email announcing my participation. I really didn’t expect any response from someone who has an agent and regularly talks to producers, but he surprised me by responding a few minutes later with some brief but very helpful advice and encouragement. It was unexpected. I mean, really unexpected. Like he had finally consented to lend me his precious copy of Animal Farm and said “Go ahead. Keep it.”
This was the same person who had, not too many months ago, pissed me off for making a condescending comment about my band. The same guy who, on occasion, would bring up the name of an ex-boyfriend and follow it with “What were you thinking?” Also the same guy who, on this cold February night, reminded me that I had a very delightful room upstairs that was perfect for pursuing my literary aspirations – and why wasn’t I using it?
Which brings us to the second surprise. I thought his visit tonight was just to catch up on life, but instead David takes a sip of his tea and announces he’s getting a divorce. He’s moving out of his house this week and being alone again for the first time in eight years. He says these things without drama but not entirely without emotion, because I can sense in his voice and see in his eyes that this wasn’t something he expected to happen, but he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Nobody’s fault, he explains, and certainly not hers. He had thought maybe coming over might take his mind off things. So there we were, sipping green tea in my living room, the sky going from grey to black as the evening passed. We end up talking about everything but the changes he’s about to go through. We end up talking about my writing.
One doesn’t argue with inspiration, whatever form it might take. Tonight it came in the form of a friend who took comfort through helping another. I don’t know if I did anything for him but listen to his advice for me, but maybe that was enough for now. He got up to leave, and we hugged as only old friends can – deeply and as intensely as our situation allowed. I watched him walk to his car, a tall figure obscured by darkness, no longer the irritating boy from high school but a man in my eyes for the first time. Then I closed the door against the evening chill, and headed up to my attic room to heed the advice of an unexpected source of inspiration. I looked around at my dark Asian-themed furniture, my bookshelves filled with my favorite authors and illustrated novels and thought, Yeah, he’s right. This is a cool room.
Damn, I hate it when he’s right.
David is the real thing. For years he has pursued screenwriting and actually gotten some real attention for his efforts. It’s unnerving to know this when we discuss writing, though he does treat me as an equal. I still see myself as a pretender, who frequently talks about being an author of many brilliant works of literature, but still can’t seem to finish anything. So tonight, he asks me how my efforts are going. I tell him.
“Damn, you know I was going to write tonight but I left my laptop at work.”
“That’s no excuse. You can write on anything. And what about that room you have upstairs? Do you go up there much?”
I cringe as he says this, because I haven’t and he’s about to make a very good point.
“That’s a really cool room. If I had a room like that I’d be up there writing all the time.”
The last person I expected any support from was David. I guess I can’t seem to let go of the guy I went to high school with who was sarcastic and incredibly insensitive most of the time – a typical honor roll nerd guy. This was his personality up to our early 30’s, and I would actually go for long periods of time not contacting him because of some offense, which he still refers to as the “anti-David” periods. This would last up to six months, during which I wouldn’t respond to his emails or instant messages or simply wouldn’t acknowledge him when we crossed paths. He’d get the message, though he would call me petty later on after I forgave him.
But I could never stay mad at him. He was David. He was a good person who made me laugh with his hilarious mock German and intimidating intellect. I knew we would be friends until we were old and decrepit, sipping our peach Metamucils during Bingo and being quietly content with the other’s presence. That’s just how it was going to be.
And he’s been full of surprises.
The first occurred last November. I decided to take part in “National Novel Writing Month” which is sponsored annually by Nanowrimo out of San Francisco. Basically, you’re given one month to write a novel of 50,000 words, and if you reach your goal you print the winner’s certificate (which is absolutely delightful to look at) and feel really quite proud of yourself. Also, you get congratulations from all the people who knew you were doing it.
I wasn’t going to tell David, but I ended up including him in the email announcing my participation. I really didn’t expect any response from someone who has an agent and regularly talks to producers, but he surprised me by responding a few minutes later with some brief but very helpful advice and encouragement. It was unexpected. I mean, really unexpected. Like he had finally consented to lend me his precious copy of Animal Farm and said “Go ahead. Keep it.”
This was the same person who had, not too many months ago, pissed me off for making a condescending comment about my band. The same guy who, on occasion, would bring up the name of an ex-boyfriend and follow it with “What were you thinking?” Also the same guy who, on this cold February night, reminded me that I had a very delightful room upstairs that was perfect for pursuing my literary aspirations – and why wasn’t I using it?
Which brings us to the second surprise. I thought his visit tonight was just to catch up on life, but instead David takes a sip of his tea and announces he’s getting a divorce. He’s moving out of his house this week and being alone again for the first time in eight years. He says these things without drama but not entirely without emotion, because I can sense in his voice and see in his eyes that this wasn’t something he expected to happen, but he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Nobody’s fault, he explains, and certainly not hers. He had thought maybe coming over might take his mind off things. So there we were, sipping green tea in my living room, the sky going from grey to black as the evening passed. We end up talking about everything but the changes he’s about to go through. We end up talking about my writing.
One doesn’t argue with inspiration, whatever form it might take. Tonight it came in the form of a friend who took comfort through helping another. I don’t know if I did anything for him but listen to his advice for me, but maybe that was enough for now. He got up to leave, and we hugged as only old friends can – deeply and as intensely as our situation allowed. I watched him walk to his car, a tall figure obscured by darkness, no longer the irritating boy from high school but a man in my eyes for the first time. Then I closed the door against the evening chill, and headed up to my attic room to heed the advice of an unexpected source of inspiration. I looked around at my dark Asian-themed furniture, my bookshelves filled with my favorite authors and illustrated novels and thought, Yeah, he’s right. This is a cool room.
Damn, I hate it when he’s right.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Another Blank Page
It's Wednesday morning, and the day is like a white sheet of paper in front of me, ready to be scribbled full with the chaotic activity that I've grown accustomed to these last few months. Nothing is really focusing me, though I certainly have plenty to do.
I've concluded (I'm certain it's not for the first time) that I have to concern myself only with things I can control, and as for the things that are out of my hands, I just have to let them go. I can find a new job. I can be a good person. I can be.
Perhaps achieving a state of Buddhist simplicity is not so far out of reach for me. It certainly is more calming to think along that philosophy. I guess that's it for now - maybe tomorrow I'll put up a chapter from the Chronicles of O'meh, the fantasy/sci-fi novel I'm still in the process of creating.
So hooray for me!
I've concluded (I'm certain it's not for the first time) that I have to concern myself only with things I can control, and as for the things that are out of my hands, I just have to let them go. I can find a new job. I can be a good person. I can be.
Perhaps achieving a state of Buddhist simplicity is not so far out of reach for me. It certainly is more calming to think along that philosophy. I guess that's it for now - maybe tomorrow I'll put up a chapter from the Chronicles of O'meh, the fantasy/sci-fi novel I'm still in the process of creating.
So hooray for me!
Monday, February 20, 2006
Boston 21
When I turned twenty-one in 1992, I thought a solo trip to Boston would help me obtain some knowledge about adulthood. Instead, I gained insight on the world of homeless people and life in general.
On day one, the first thing I observed was the constant presence of beggars. Such elements are usually present in major cities, but what stood out was the large amount of foreigners. They carried cards that said “I don’t speak English. Please give me money for food.” One lady, who seemed more animal than human as she communicated with aggressive grunts and gestures, was stuffing her mouth with a sandwich while shoving the card in my face. Her reek was unbearable. I hurried past, vacillating between revulsion and sympathy.
But there were some who begged with a smile and a witty comment. Curiously, they didn’t seem particularly upset about their lot in life. One such individual shot me a remark as I walked past. He wore a dirty white t-shirt, baggy jeans, and seemed a bit plump for a panhandler. His disposition appeared quite sunny, despite his obvious social standings.
I used the moment to inquire about his origins.
His answer was quick. “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers to get by,” he explained with a grin. “Since I was a child.”
I gave him a dollar and thanked him for his time. Later, I came across another young man, dread-locked and full of sarcasm. When I tried walking past him, not quite in the mood for conversation yet, he told me to smile, sister. So I walked up to him and said “Tell me your story first.”
He told me that he and his girlfriend were living in an abandoned house not too far away, both jobless and making ends meet begging. They weren’t from Boston and had arrived there through whatever means they could find. When I met her later – a full figured white girl with short, choppy blonde hair and piercings – they seemed more like newlyweds on their honeymoon than two lost souls with nowhere to go. It was all a grand adventure to them. They didn’t seem crazy, either. We actually got on pretty well, but it was quietly understood between us that our relationship was limited to polite conversation.
What happened to these people? Did they find their ultimate destination? Did they meet a terrible fate I’ll never know? Their approach to life that was so different than what I expected and my brief conversations with them left their mark on my mind. I returned with more than what I had originally sought: new experiences, and the realization that life is a choice, and you can make the best of what you choose for yourself. So at 37, I’m still choosing - but I know it’s ultimately up to me and no one else.
On day one, the first thing I observed was the constant presence of beggars. Such elements are usually present in major cities, but what stood out was the large amount of foreigners. They carried cards that said “I don’t speak English. Please give me money for food.” One lady, who seemed more animal than human as she communicated with aggressive grunts and gestures, was stuffing her mouth with a sandwich while shoving the card in my face. Her reek was unbearable. I hurried past, vacillating between revulsion and sympathy.
But there were some who begged with a smile and a witty comment. Curiously, they didn’t seem particularly upset about their lot in life. One such individual shot me a remark as I walked past. He wore a dirty white t-shirt, baggy jeans, and seemed a bit plump for a panhandler. His disposition appeared quite sunny, despite his obvious social standings.
I used the moment to inquire about his origins.
His answer was quick. “I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers to get by,” he explained with a grin. “Since I was a child.”
I gave him a dollar and thanked him for his time. Later, I came across another young man, dread-locked and full of sarcasm. When I tried walking past him, not quite in the mood for conversation yet, he told me to smile, sister. So I walked up to him and said “Tell me your story first.”
He told me that he and his girlfriend were living in an abandoned house not too far away, both jobless and making ends meet begging. They weren’t from Boston and had arrived there through whatever means they could find. When I met her later – a full figured white girl with short, choppy blonde hair and piercings – they seemed more like newlyweds on their honeymoon than two lost souls with nowhere to go. It was all a grand adventure to them. They didn’t seem crazy, either. We actually got on pretty well, but it was quietly understood between us that our relationship was limited to polite conversation.
What happened to these people? Did they find their ultimate destination? Did they meet a terrible fate I’ll never know? Their approach to life that was so different than what I expected and my brief conversations with them left their mark on my mind. I returned with more than what I had originally sought: new experiences, and the realization that life is a choice, and you can make the best of what you choose for yourself. So at 37, I’m still choosing - but I know it’s ultimately up to me and no one else.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
J. Thomas
Yes, his name is John Thomas. It really is.
I thought of him the other day. I often have periods of nostalgic memories in my car, and that morning on the way to work he came to mind. John was one of the most American looking guys I've ever come across - blonde hair, blue eyes and six feet tall. He also kinda looked like Stewart Copeland from The Police. He was, in fact, a drummer, which is how I met him.
John and I became involved first in this terrible reggae band I was in during the part of my 20's when I just wanted to do stuff without really thinking them through first. After that we volunteered to be part of a doomed project that was put together to play Top 40 in Taipei, along with some other foolish people who thought it was a swell idea. It hadn't been a total disaster, and we did have some fun while we were there. All in all it had been a poor decision, but during the whole experience he and I became good friends. One reason I enjoyed his company so much was that we both would have giggle fits just being around each other, like we were in elementary school. That's a rare thing between those of the opposite sex, I think. He also was amazingly calm and together during our Taiwan ordeal, and never blamed me afterwards though I think it was me that talked him into going. Now that's a pal!
John eventually moved to New York to try his luck in the music scene. Eventually, he ended up getting a teaching degree and marrying the anesthesiologist who put him under during some surgery he had to have. I believe he has kids now, too. We don't keep in touch anymore, unfortunately, but perhaps we'll cross paths again. For now it's enough that I had enjoyed his company and gotten through a really very silly time in my music career. Well, one of many silly times, actually.
Thanks, John - wherever you are!
I thought of him the other day. I often have periods of nostalgic memories in my car, and that morning on the way to work he came to mind. John was one of the most American looking guys I've ever come across - blonde hair, blue eyes and six feet tall. He also kinda looked like Stewart Copeland from The Police. He was, in fact, a drummer, which is how I met him.
John and I became involved first in this terrible reggae band I was in during the part of my 20's when I just wanted to do stuff without really thinking them through first. After that we volunteered to be part of a doomed project that was put together to play Top 40 in Taipei, along with some other foolish people who thought it was a swell idea. It hadn't been a total disaster, and we did have some fun while we were there. All in all it had been a poor decision, but during the whole experience he and I became good friends. One reason I enjoyed his company so much was that we both would have giggle fits just being around each other, like we were in elementary school. That's a rare thing between those of the opposite sex, I think. He also was amazingly calm and together during our Taiwan ordeal, and never blamed me afterwards though I think it was me that talked him into going. Now that's a pal!
John eventually moved to New York to try his luck in the music scene. Eventually, he ended up getting a teaching degree and marrying the anesthesiologist who put him under during some surgery he had to have. I believe he has kids now, too. We don't keep in touch anymore, unfortunately, but perhaps we'll cross paths again. For now it's enough that I had enjoyed his company and gotten through a really very silly time in my music career. Well, one of many silly times, actually.
Thanks, John - wherever you are!
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Super Bowl
So all week it's been sports media mayhem in the RenCen. We had all been apprehensive about what it would be like when Detroit hosted Super Bowl XL, but so far, it hasn't been so bad. Traffice was normal on the way in, and getting around the building hasn't been as difficult as some had feared. The only bad part is that I wouldn't know if I bumped into someone famous, as my knowledge of sports is pretty non-existent. Maybe next time we can host something for the Food Network. Now that would be cool.
Mario Batelli could sign olive oil bottles. Emeril could roast a pig in the Winter Garden. Rachel Rae could do me a favor and not show up at all. And if Alton Brown was there, I would surely have him sign my salt cellar, 'cuz he's just dreamy (it's true - I fall for the guy with the twisted sense of humor every time, receding hairline or no).
But I'll keep going down and checking out the scene. It gives my daily walk to the mailbox just a little more excitement, and maybe I'll run into Gilbert Gottfried getting a Cafe Carmel at the Coffee Beanery. Like that guy needs any more caffeine.
Friday, a long lunch will be spent at the Motown Winter Blast looking at sledding dogs and cheering on some friends who are playing at the event. I'm keeping nice and busy. Life is good, and soon winter will just be a distant memory. And that would be fine thing indeed.
Mario Batelli could sign olive oil bottles. Emeril could roast a pig in the Winter Garden. Rachel Rae could do me a favor and not show up at all. And if Alton Brown was there, I would surely have him sign my salt cellar, 'cuz he's just dreamy (it's true - I fall for the guy with the twisted sense of humor every time, receding hairline or no).
But I'll keep going down and checking out the scene. It gives my daily walk to the mailbox just a little more excitement, and maybe I'll run into Gilbert Gottfried getting a Cafe Carmel at the Coffee Beanery. Like that guy needs any more caffeine.
Friday, a long lunch will be spent at the Motown Winter Blast looking at sledding dogs and cheering on some friends who are playing at the event. I'm keeping nice and busy. Life is good, and soon winter will just be a distant memory. And that would be fine thing indeed.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Mindfulness
There is this concept in Buddhist philosophy called mindfulness. Basically, what you're endeavoring to do (or not endeavoring to do at all, as Buddhism goes) is live each moment fully, rather than dwell on the past or the future , what you need to do, etc.
For example, I'm sitting at my desk about to get into my daily worries and anxieties, and I just realized that I need to take a breath and experience everything around me. I stop what I'm doing, and listen. I hear my co-workers, whom I like. We might not have anything in common, but they're good people. I hear them talking or typing quietly at their desks, and I'm reminded that they are well and healthy, and that their existence at my job is comforting.
From there I move to my body, and the simple comforts I have at my disposal. My clothes fit well, I'm warm, I'm not particularly tired and I'm pretty alert this morning. These are all basic things, I know, but somehow when I stop and meditate on these things, I calm down and am able to take things one at a time.
It's not that I'm completely stressed out about anything. I just find myself getting caught up with things that shouldn't worry me so, and it's so much better to be calm. Better for the mind and body. And darn it, I'm worth it.
Ohmmmm......
For example, I'm sitting at my desk about to get into my daily worries and anxieties, and I just realized that I need to take a breath and experience everything around me. I stop what I'm doing, and listen. I hear my co-workers, whom I like. We might not have anything in common, but they're good people. I hear them talking or typing quietly at their desks, and I'm reminded that they are well and healthy, and that their existence at my job is comforting.
From there I move to my body, and the simple comforts I have at my disposal. My clothes fit well, I'm warm, I'm not particularly tired and I'm pretty alert this morning. These are all basic things, I know, but somehow when I stop and meditate on these things, I calm down and am able to take things one at a time.
It's not that I'm completely stressed out about anything. I just find myself getting caught up with things that shouldn't worry me so, and it's so much better to be calm. Better for the mind and body. And darn it, I'm worth it.
Ohmmmm......
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Exactly What Do I Fear?
Boredom. Loneliness. Sudden demise of my person. These are some things that come to mind when I think about what I'm afraid of. All justifiable things, so I think if I compare the little fears to these somewhat major ones, I might be able to conquer them.
I think I'm afraid of the work involved in writing this novel. Or perhaps I just need to set a deadline, because that has been the number one motivator as far as completing anything. Of course, then I have to take the deadline seriously. . .
I think I better. I think music and I have had our time together and it's time to focus on something else. Not to say I'm done with being a musician, but why be one thing all the time? I suppose I already know that I have a lot of dimensions to my character. I always overlook that - it always takes someone else to point it out to me. Things are just too quiet right now and it's making me a little crazy. Heh. What else is new?
Hmm..this entry is getting a bit personal, but so be it.
I think it's time to accept what I've done and what more I can do in life. There will be other paths at some point, and I need to be observant so I don't miss them. Something always happens after these periods of inactivity and restlessness.
Something.
I think I'm afraid of the work involved in writing this novel. Or perhaps I just need to set a deadline, because that has been the number one motivator as far as completing anything. Of course, then I have to take the deadline seriously. . .
I think I better. I think music and I have had our time together and it's time to focus on something else. Not to say I'm done with being a musician, but why be one thing all the time? I suppose I already know that I have a lot of dimensions to my character. I always overlook that - it always takes someone else to point it out to me. Things are just too quiet right now and it's making me a little crazy. Heh. What else is new?
Hmm..this entry is getting a bit personal, but so be it.
I think it's time to accept what I've done and what more I can do in life. There will be other paths at some point, and I need to be observant so I don't miss them. Something always happens after these periods of inactivity and restlessness.
Something.
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