Interzone Dispatch #2
I’ve been waiting for the bolt of lightening to strike me down in blazing fury. I’ve been waiting for strong winds to fling me over a cliff to be broken on jagged rocks. I sit in anticipation of the stampede—the crushing weight of judgement’s herd—the 100 blows.
Yesterday, at work, I wrote a sentence:
“He is a forward thinking senior manager who intuitively grasps the usefulness of new technologies in effectively managing knowledge.”
I realize now the million little daily compromises that the average office job entails. These people I work with aren’t soulless drones. They are me. They have hopes and dreams. Very few of my coworkers woke up one day to think, I will shuffle paper—that is my calling.
There is a tendency among my generation, my demographic—whatever—to condescend ion and superiority. I’m creative man…I just do this for the money. Well sunshine, so do most of the people around you.
Is this right-livelihood though? Who knows? That piece of crap I wrote yesterday might help win some poor slob a new contract. That contract might be one of the most interesting and fulfilling experiences of his life. No animals were harmed in the crafting of my business-speak gibberish. No one will remember I wrote it—or even cares that much now. I’m getting a paycheque. There will be Christmas presents. Everything’s as it should be right?
Then why do I start to sweat when I read that sentence?
Lately I have been looking back—like an old man rocking on his porch, reminiscing.
I’ve been remembering events and places. I’ve been thinking about homes, schools, jobs, long finished parties—seemingly fleeting moments that lodge themselves in your brain and bubble up to surface at odd times.
I’ve been remembering people. I’ve been thinking about long gone friends and lovers. I’ve been thinking of all those lives that drift in, intersect with yours and drift out again. A life consists of a stream of connections and disconnections with others. At the time, some of these connections can seem so permanent—so sturdy and solid. How many of these have I severed or have been severed on me? How many of those seemingly permanent connections are now stray thoughts bubbling to the surface from the murk of daily living?
But there are always those precious few—those cherished ones. There are people who, no matter how long you’ve been apart or how recently you’ve been touched by them, mark you. There are some, whose absence leaves small holes.
The wounds that never fully heal brought back home from the battle.