Friday, after work, the Fourth of July come and gone, I'm sitting here at the computer, the sun setting behind me, the building across the way, half sun and half shadow, a two day weekend to celebrate starting right here, right now! Or is that too much? It was a long day, my mind filled with now familiar white noise, but it was bearable. Lunch was good, if hurried. The building was half deserted except for the IT financial types who sit in a row of cubicles beside us, working against deadline to finish the first half financial's. I once worked in finance when I was younger. It wasn't completely awful. I survived finance (and being younger).
The white noise is worrisome. It's showing up now more often, a feeling where you just want to sit down and buzz. Long hours and stress, of course. The sixteen days of vacation I have coming may or may not be enough to cure the problem, we don't have any less on our plates and we don't have management any more intelligent today than it was last month to make it bearable. They're hunkered down themselves in their own variation of point the finger at the other guy survival. Manage up! Manage up! We can whine all we like in an employee satisfaction survey and whining can make you feel better, but the feeling leaves and the culture remains, whittling away, whittling away.
No communication from any of the Dykes on Bikes members I approached at the Gay Pride parade last weekend, so I'm thinking if they've seen the site, they weren't so immediately upset they needed to let me know right away. I probably read too much into some of the discussions on the photography sites I browse, one of which in particular, run by professional photographers for professional photographers, occasionally goes over the "what's OK on the web" question in mind numbing detail and I evidently read it with unwholesome interest. What I need is just one "far fucking out!" from someone who's photo is up on the site to put it in perspective. This is the Warhol Age, after all, the fifteen minutes of fame age and getting a mug shot up on the web could be that one first critical step toward stardom.
Saturday morning after many hours sleep, first time in a long time, go to bed two hours early, get up an hour late after a dream about the old Erhard Seminars Training (EST). They taught you meditation exercises you could use to reduce stress. I still remember the place I buzzed down to during mine, a small section of beach on Water Isle located just off the coast of St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands, a place I once visited when I was young. I don't recall being on the beach in the dream, but I do recall thinking, as I was getting out of bed, rapidly shedding any memories of the dream's specifics, maybe my brain is trying to send me a message. Practice the old meditation, be more careful, take care of yourself, don't bitch and moan so much. "Don't bitch and moan so much?" "Take care of yourself?" Strange concepts.