Unhappiness and the statue

Every Friday morning, I mentally chew on the events of the previous week. It's an old habit of mine, an exercise I developed long ago with a boring history but the point is Friday is Digestion Day.

Digestion may help explain this week's turn of events and last week's incredible stress as last Friday I was denied time to process events. My sister got into a terrible car accident and my train went off the tracks with her.

With that said I am starting with last week's Monday, rather then this last Monday. I am remembering the statue from a dream when I was little. The question I ask myself today is, “How to remember the statue?"

I was interrupted by a hug around the shoulders from behind my chair.

I am at work and Jr. Boss is lovely today. Yesterday morning she was in offensive mode, but by afternoon she had switched to "All I ever wanted was to be your best friend!”. What she really wanted all along was her very own employee.

Tragically, for me, she has one at long last...

I came back from lunch to find that there were post notes on everything. Exaggeration not required. They were on the invoices, the check requests, a printed spreadsheet and on the computer screens. Yes, both monitors; no one was left out. Each scrawled out a different gleeful message "You are so awesome! Thank you for everything!!", "This spreadsheet looks AMAZING!!", "You got all of your coding right on the invoices! You are the best!", etc.

It was nice outside for lunch. I drove with the windows down. I never turn on the radio or plug in my ipod anymore. I like the quiet. It’s ‘real’ quiet. Not ‘grey maze of cubes and soft typing’ quiet but the ‘wind in my ears and the sound of my car rattling’ quiet.

Back at the office surrounded by hot pink and florescent yellow post it’s I felt the prickle of the sunburn on the back of my hands but I smiled. I couldn't help it. There is such grief in this world and 99.9% of it is self created. Yet we chew on it, trying to ignore the dry stale taste because we are hungry. Or at least, we think we are.

She is so unhappy. The turbulent waves of emotions, the happy friendly girl, the fiercely hypocritical child, the moody uncertain vicious woman –all reflections of her despair.

I thought about a different woman who visited this weekend. I thought about her despair. Her grief. I thought about her large heart, giving nature and self sacrificing love… and underneath her great unhappiness.

Unhappiness is the same as happiness because you must reach for it. It cannot come to you because you must choose your choice.

I remembered the words that are my bible, my gospel, my personal holy prayer;

‘Remember I am loved -If only by myself. Remember I am accepted -If only by myself’.
‘Remember to be brave and upright, that I may love me.’
‘Break my pride that I may be proud.’

How to remember the statue? I close my eyes, to see it, hear it, to remember. Remembering now I hear the shouting, how the sound echoes up and down. I see fists shaking out of the open windows, faces pressed against the windows with screens. Other faces hidden by stain glass windows and still more faces obscured by narrow windows hugged with shutters.

I do not like conflict and meanness. It frightens me. I see the harm inflicted.  In my memory, in one of many visits, my dream guide’s hand touched my shoulder, reminded me to relax. His voice was a shadow in my thoughts, “Remember, no one can ever really see someone else’s point of view. Every heart knows this and it is the source of all loneliness.”

How to remember the statue? Blinding light reflecting off its curves long puzzled my guesses of height, width. What is the statue? Why do we fight over it?

I went back last night, in my dreams, and stood alone at my window.

Reader would you like to know my window? My window is a large bay window with a window seat. The lower sections of the windows slid up and this lets in a friendly breeze, along with the anxious voices. I cannot lean out of my window like others can theirs though and I have often wondered how the view would change if I could.

I curled up on it last night and listened. I closed my eyes and listened to the voices arguing, crying, some singing; no one could agree and no one would agree.  They could not change the point of view of the other.

I tried to be still; to hear nothing but the sound of wind in my ears and rattle of my car in the morning.

I opened my eyes and looked at the statue. I saw marble trees engraved, branches reaching and wrapping. I saw fingers of light and writing that is mine. I saw the marks of tear stains and an imprint of my hand when I was five. I saw the green light of the east, filtering down through breathing trees to grace the ground with gold. The ripples in the stream were there with the glaring white salt flats behind them. I saw my best friend’s smile when I was seventeen the night before I left.

I saw my life. My precious small life.

Life is great…I thought, Life is good. How else can our hearts over come our fears of being alone, other then to know that we are alone? To know that even when we love and are loved; we are still alone inside. We have only ourselves for company.

Capitalist

I am sitting at my hidden corner cube and over hear the conversation on the other side of the wall. As a side note, people forget I am here and as this happens often, I have heard all kinds of office gossip from this side of the wall.

Today's argument is about Social Security. Onion Rings, argues that the monetary depletion is everyone's problem and the second, the self-proclaimed "Libertarian", (I wonder if he knows that it means to be a Libertarian...) argues that the younger generation should 'suck it up and pay it' for the sake of the older generation....

Sadly, I couldn't stop myself from blurting was "This is absolutely everyone's problem!"

Still out of sight, I hit myself in the head for the out burst. I was toast now.

The "Libertarian" descended on me, "It's the filthy capitalists! Its their fault! Are you one too? We are the ones who will work until we are old because you capitalistic kids went out and stole all your lives and then sold it for more then it was worth. That is what CAPITALISM means! To steal-"

The rant continued but I zoned out at this point. I let him go until his face was a little too flushed and I wondered about the octave his voice had reached.

I soothingly smiled my best smile and waited as he took a breath at last, "I see you feel involved with what is going on in the world."

He nodded jerkily and wiped his hands through his hair, pasting it back down with sweat, "Yes! It's very important these days."

At this opportune moment, The Boss walked by, slowing to eye us critically and I took this chance to coolly say, "Thank you Citizen '"Libertarian"." I then turned away, back to my desk. After an awkward pause, he walked off.

I know better then to react here. Everyone must be on medication.

Sunburn

I itch in my own skin. It is a feeling similar to having a sunburn and then laying on it without offering any apology to it, not lotion or a glass of water. A dry irritated anxious feeling.

To calm myself I go to my brother’s website and I look at the landscapes he has painted and posted online. I think about how the air tasted that morning. Moist, cool and quiet and the world is breathing with the paint… or in another one, it is choked by blinding baking sun light and the stillness is sitting on top of the heavy air.

But the feeling of rest is more just a memory of an echo lately.

We planted ivy and trees this weekend. When I opened my car door and stepped out yesterday afternoon, I reverently touched the one closest to me. Green... I stoked the vine and admired the waxy color of life.

Green… and somewhere there is not a world gone mad. There are not grey walls and bitter silent revolutions eating inside me. People are kind on the road again, Strangers are friends waiting to meet. The world is as I saw it only a couple years ago… That summer we spent chasing storms.

Somewhere I am myself again. Where I write and draw. I don’t fight off people eight to five. I don’t fall out of bed and forget to say good morning to the dawn. And there is somewhere that my skin will feel like my own again.

I opened the garage door in my mind and looked at my door. Open road on an open door. Something is calling me. I am on trains in my dreams lately, speeding heart stopping fast trains. And something is on the other side of the train that I need. I keep trying to get to the other side but the train car shakes and rattles over the tracks, throwing me back.

I had a wonderful weekend. I felt rested and safe. I felt like laughing and teasing. But the feeling came back anyway, Sunday, at 11pm. I ignored it yesterday. Today it is in my face -and now everyone else’s too.

What is nagging at the edges of my thoughts?

Ice Run

At least two to three times a day there is a run on ice.

Fellow co-workers herd each other up until there is a group of four or more. Then everyone heads to the other side of the building to fill their individual cup, jar, or bottle for water with ice at the company cafeteria.

Presently there is no charge for this service.

Personally I have a theory or two on these ice runs. First, the company doesn't allow smoking while on the company's property. People still need their break though and this is a good substitute.

Second, this is a lot like the popular table in the cafeteria of middle school and high school. You can tell when the project managers are happy with lessor employees because they invite certain ones and not others. Its funny sometimes, honestly, because they call out to Jack and Jill but then poor Bob is left out.

There is one smoker at work; or at least one non-closet smoker. He braves the cold shoulders of others and smokes out across the street. It looked a bit miserable a few days in February but now its cool and bright and spring. He stands out in the warming sunshine among the trees and timid green buds while the others head to the darkened cafeteria (its only open for food from 11am to 2pm) at the end of a dimly lit florescent hall and I wonder….

I know that cigarettes are bad and stinky and blah blah blah… but Is smoking that bad for you? I mean you, not your lungs, not the physical parts.

Meanwhile I have been invited to two ice runs in my four months. Have yet to decide if it lives up to the excitement.