| Long Time, No Typee! |
[Jan. 24th, 2005|08:53 pm] |
So what happened? That easy verbosity that I had earlier celebrated is sadly no more.
But I know that I can buck up, a easily too. I am, you see, at the center of a major conspiracy, an intrigue. You have heard of it. Perhaps you've even argued about it. It is one of the most major happenings of our times, that is, if it does indeed happen.
Illegal? Not at all.
Underhanded? Not exactly. If you knew enough to understand the aims of all this, everything would make sense. You can learn and reason backwards. But even many of our closest allies--hell, my colleagues--are to some measure in the dark about what they do every day. Is it desception if very few are smart enough to figure out what you're up to, even as you attend to it in the public square, in open meetings, and in the church-house itself?
Anyway, nothing gets the blood going like a good scheme and this is, easily, the biggest of them all. The stakes are unimaginable--so much so that I have to remind myself of that fact every day, especially on those days when I lose sight of the end, the ultimate goal, and get tripped up in details and petty intrigue.
But sometimes I wonder. Am I one of them, those trapped in the sun's glare? Can I see clearly where this is all headed? Or are there puppeteers above me, too, pulling the strings and providing this glimmer on the horizon? I think its paradise, the word changed, but maybe I'll find in years that it was just an illusion, long since abandoned, but quietly.
And what then? Only then will I know for sure.
I must stop. My visitor at the door could probably figure out what this all means if he glanced a word of it. And still I must let him in. |
|
|
| blah |
[Jan. 12th, 2005|10:45 pm] |
 |
|
|
| You Know You're At Home... |
[Jan. 7th, 2005|06:20 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | dry | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | there there | ] |
...when you stop having to remind yourself that this is home. Not there yet.
This weekend will be work, work, work. And by "will," I mean "should" because it doesn't feel like I'm going to get anything done tonight.
First, I have a few reading assignments, along with a bit to write. And then there's some thinking to do. And then a whole bunch to write that an entire roomful of people is waiting to look over and tell me how I got it wrong. Though, more likely, they'll say nothing at all, which is somehow worse. And then there's a pile of stuff to read and edit, possibly rewrite.
I did a quick rewrite job today. I was dreading it and put it off, but only for 15 minutes which was enough to make me feel guilty. Then I got out the hammer, and words flew in every direction. The basis for a good piece was there, and I excavated it. It wasn't really that hard, but I always worry that the original author will have a fit that I put him through a rewriting. Oddly, few seem to care. It would bug me, for sure, even if I thought that one of my pieces needed it.
Maybe that's the thing. It could be that these folks don't care any less about their work but recognize my comparative advantage in writing. If that's it, it would be worthwhile to get them to keep away from the keyboard altogether. Send me numbers, send me notes, even an outline. It's just so much faster to start from scratch than to dismantle first.
Why I can do this for some of my time sinks: because I am totally misanthropic and hate to ask anyone to do anything substantial for me unless I really am obviously deficient at it. Thus, I operate by absolute advantage, not comparative advantage.
But this isn't a hinderance or anything, so long as there are infinite hours in the day. |
|
|
| Day 2 |
[Jan. 6th, 2005|06:24 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | Deeply | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | Really Loud | ] |
If you were just getting to know me yesterday (and I have no
expectation that anyone actually ready yesterday's post), you might
think to yourself, My gosh, this fellow needs medication and fast.
Well, I would have thought so.
But today was brighter, and if I don't know any more than I did
yesterday, then I don't know any less, either and that pleases me.
More than anything else in my life, the amount of work that I face is
the biggest determinant of my happiness. If I am busy, I am happy
because I take meaning from production. If I'm idle, I become idle in
all my thought processes and habits.
From start to stop today I was writing, thousands of words on a variety of topics too arcane to discuss here and I loved it.
And then there were meetings, three of them, which is about usual. I
swam through two; I was assured and decisive. The third I endured,
though pleasantly, and didn't make an ass of myself like others did. I
spoke whem spoken to and kept to the point. As in Japan, the right
answer is always yes, though there may be qualifications. I said yes,
several times.
So what do I think of livejournal so far? Well, for no particular
reason, it feels more like a journal. Why is that? I am, after all,
just typing text into a box like any other on the Web. I haven't yet
installed a client, although I may soon. I think the difference is
contextual. Livejournal is a sea of thought, both mundane and
exception, and very few form the froth above the mass of water. For
now, I'm happy to be lost within that mass, buried, drowning.
Submersion isn't so bad if your aim is to be a submarine. |
|
|
| First Post! |
[Jan. 5th, 2005|03:29 pm] |
Another year, another weblog. THis is my first time on livejournal, and so will my posts be well more journal-y? Could be. Probably less well proofread, as well.
The few journals that I've read on this site tend to entertain incredibly long posts. Maybe it has something to do with the clients, perhaps working with a program on your PC is less onerous than typing into a browser textbox, which doesn't offer too many features.
So, let's pretend this is a journal: I've had this feeling for the past few years--it's gotten worse of late--that my consciousness is a ping-pong ball bounding back and forth against the walls of my hollow frontal lobes. I feel a spark of life, but no fire behind it. Or to use another metaphor, there's much surface but no depth.
So who am I? What procession of events led me to here and what memories can I salvage from the wadded lump pressed into the farthest reaches of my grasp? How should I describe myself if not by occupation and what am I without it, aside from a bundle of preferences and vague interests that no longer define me as a person? Is this a midlife crisis come early or teenage existential angst, of which I suffered my fair share in secret, come late?
Magazines and books roll off my memory banks like water over a ledge, eroding the rock gradually but leaving the whole thing dry regardless when the sun reemerges. What was in the last sentence, on the last page, the last chapter, other book? When memory evaporates, does any being remain? Instinct will get me through well enough, I fear.
Proof of my existence is reduced by now to a single fact: the sensation of emptiness. For that which is truly empty is also unaware. So there's something left. Maybe if I water it, it can grow.
Or maybe I'll just drown. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
aneconomist's journal