(Eden at a 65 mph drive-by)
It never ends. Job problems even when I'm not at work. There is an almost constant dance between rights and responsibilities, orders and insubordination, initiatives and lack of initiative. Others don't seem to have these same problems. Others, always others. My life moves from trouble to trouble, on oceans of assumptions and whims, or worse.
We have begun to settle into our new house, unboxing books in an effort to humanize the place, to keep the cardboard boxes from stealing our precious humidity. I have steely resolve to never let a roomful of boxes give me a sinus infection again, even if I do like sipping NyQuil through the hazy late nights as if it's honey-whiskey. The time has come for me to put a fence on the cliff rather than always keeping an ambulance in the valley. Soon our lives will be unboxed. I'll keep a bottle of NyQuil handy just in case though. You never know.
I love our new home. The exterior of the house is comprised of cedar siding. It is impractical and was popular in the 80's. At once we felt a spiritual kinship with it. Some spots are faded and split, others wet and weathered, almost moist in appearance. Its impracticality is its charm. It's like much else in my life - cracking, and needing to be replaced.
I have written 1/3 of a million words on this site since its beginning just over two years ago. I found out yesterday. It occurred to me that I don't have a local copy of any of it. So I set out copying-and-pasting, one month at a time. Then I put them all into a single document. 320,000 words. I'm am not writing for numerical totals, but still... I was impressed with myself. I usually have a difficult time sticking with things. I give up easy, expect more praise than I deserve, bore quickly with my own efforts, etc. I am the classic underachiever. My own biggest fan, my own worst enemy.
But, I am proud of myself for having stuck with this. It requires a discipline of sorts, a daily dedication of time. I wonder what they would say at work about it... There is little place at work for anything that does not feed the monster. All things should work towards the edification of the juggernaut behemoth.
It is the curse of the tree of knowledge. The sweet taste of pomegranate or apple filling man's head with the knowing from which there is no return. The curse and pain of labor, both women's and men's. The gorging ourselves upon information, and the access to it. The juice of the forbidden fruit drowning out our senses, intoxicating us with its daily dizzying increases. Oh, dear bandwidth, won't you widen like the Nile...
I'd better stop all of this talk. Rachel will be wanting to baptize little innocent Rhys soon, to wash away his pre-born sin. We'll want to assure him a spot in paradise, saving him from his little automatic guilt, his unoriginal sin.
People are completely out of their muddled minds. I wish there was a way of baptizing him against idiotic religious mumblings. Not even education seems a certain safeguard any longer.