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.

A Car Named Katie

I bought my first car when I was twenty years old. Before that I relied on patient parents, crummy bus systems and boyfriends with twenty year old mustangs that sometimes worked.

My first car was a basic sedan, almost new (it had 500 miles on it), blue, power steering and manual everything else. The best part? It had a CD player.

It was the ultimate first car. I named her Katie.

Fast forward eight and a half years. My first car is still my only car.

Katie has been up and down the east coast from Pennsylvania to Georgia three times. I don’t remember how many times from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Katie and I have been to nearly every major city several times over on the east coast. We went cross country alone once. I drove all over south California for two years. Then the move to Utah came. Then I drove from Utah to Wyoming twice. Then Utah back to California several times….

Of course there were all the every day drives in whatever location I was at the moment and in whatever situation I had myself in as well. Maybe I hang on to the car because I am a Cancer, ‘home and hearth’ thing and all that. This car is my ship and anchor... but without the whole water deal and with wheels and axle. Passport not required (although I had one stashed and ready just in case), driver’s license highly recommended.

Anyway… Katie now rattles. She sometimes has a cough in the morning. The windows stick, permanently implanted dog hair is in the back seat and a nasty long scratch marks the outside –acquired when avoiding a semi on a little road four years ago. Randomly, lights will turn on in the dash board and I really don’t know why anymore.

She smells like really old Gatorade, shoes, burnt coffee, cigarettes (yes, yes, they are evil, bad for you and stinky, I got it), wet dog and books. I don’t know why books but that could be because I moved a few times and everything I owned had to fit in the trunk or be left behind. Books were usually the things I refused to not force fit. The back seat was out as the dog had dibbs.

There are too many cup holders, I never could figure out what a front seat did with one in each door, and three in the middle. The third one in the middle is filled with sea shells. Some are from the harbor in Baltimore, some from the Outer Banks, some from the Gulf of Mexico, Virginia Beach, Carlsbad, Mexico, and Santa Barbara. I think there are even a couple of shells I found while hiking in Utah.

From the rear view mirror hangs a dream catcher from Oklahoma, a necklace from an old friend I haven’t seen in seven years and a faded yellow ribbon for my dad and then for my brother.

I did get Katie a new pair of shiny ‘tready’ shoes at the beginning of this winter. And new brake pads… Her morning cough thing is new. That started about a month ago. Could be she is sick of the winter and smog and inversion too though.

I know I might have to replace this little blue car in the near future but I have to admit, I really am sad to see the car go. Even if it stinks. Even if it rattles… sometimes a lot.

Charlie

I have a cat named Charlie, or also known as 'little dude'. I raised him as I would a dog with the usual 'no', 'down', 'here'.... he listened the first six months or so but now he is deaf. His hearing is currently limited to only a few select sounds; the can opener, the back door opening and my alarm clock.

Sadly, the fact that I have not given him canned cat food in several months has not dulled his glee and hope. I, cruelly, have given him what I am really opening…. Like spinach. He is tenacious though. Someday, the can opener may be opening canned cat food once more.

The back door opening is really an unfortunate choice on his part. I don’t open it often so how he associated it with the concept of the ‘Great Escape’, I don’t know. You would think the regularly opened front door would get that honor. The uncomfortable part is that I only seem to open the back door when I am inappropriately clothed for neighbor viewing. The other awkward part is that Charlie… who is not equipped with any sort of common sense or any sense of self preservation, does not know what to do once he is outside. Which means, at 3am or 3pm and in rain or snow, he will make it about six feet out and then FREEZE. ‘The big world is awfully big’ and now what does a little portly black and white cat do? While he contemplates his choices, I get to stand there calling my suddenly frozen wailing cat (who is deaf to commands) until I give in and go pick him up… I did that once half naked.

The last one is the alarm clock. Also known as the morning and dinner bell. Every morning at 6:45am sharp, the yowling outside the bedroom begins. It does not matter to Charlie if I am sleeping in on Sunday, sicker then death, or just really really comfortable. He will eat immediately or I will pay for it.

Charles is not allowed in the bedroom for many reasons. One of the many reasons are things such as daylight saving time changes. Charlie does not accept daylight savings time changes. What does this have to do with his stomach?

Next Friday, there is a staff meeting about the Mailbox…

All of the account department gathered to discuss the phenomenon also known as the 'Building's outgoing mailbox'. Sadly, at first I thought the meeting was a joke and I had managed to get out half of a laugh before my manager shot me a ‘shh!’ look before my manager’s manager realized I laughed, not coughed.

So….I daydreamed myself away that I was twenty two again. That life was wide open. That I would never sit in a meeting about a mailbox. I remembered when I was semi-broke, (oh wait, that hasn't changed, oh well, anyway), when I had nothing but a dog, a few name brand pairs of shoes and far too many paint brushes.

The Mailbox Email Continued…..

Within two minutes of this email having been sent to the entire office, I begin to receive the replies to it (as everyone is replying all: .

First isPayroll, Site Management is a close second, but these emails are closely followed by additional emails from my co-workers in Accounts Payable… the theme of all?

“Hey! Did you know we have an outgoing mailbox here in the building???”

At the fourteenth email I simply start deleting the emails with the words “Secure Outgoing Mail”, in the subject line. Perhaps there was a way that they knew this because then I began to have visitors. The sliding doors of my cube began to be repeatedly slammed back as the opening to the excited question,

“Have you heard about the Mailbox???”

I smiled for the sixth person, I looked politely at the seventh, the eighth person happened to be my manager and again, I do like him so I smiled again.

“Have you heard about the mailbox downstairs?”

I sighed, “Yes,” I gestured to my computer screen, “Yes I have.”

He glances over, chuckles and says the unthinkable, “Lets go on a field trip to see it!”

I look at him blankly.

“C’mon!!” he urges.

Ok.

Down the hall, down the elevator and there it still is, the outgoing secured mailbox.  A nice little golden plate above the lock advises the contents are picked up at noon and 5:30pm Monday through Friday. We stand there for a moment. I try to think of something to say but for once decide silence is best.

My manager stood with arms crossed and pondered the mail box. I shove my hands in my pockets and shift the weight on my feet…

Silence really doesn't suit me. “So there it is…” I say at last.

“Hm.” He answers thoughtfully.

We go back upstairs after that. Within a minute and a half I get an email from my manager’s manager as follows below:

“Until it can be confirmed outgoing mail is picked up daily from the buildings outgoing mailbox slot, Accounts Payable will continue to hand deliver the company mail every day to the post office.”

The Mailbox Email…

I have given up on protesting or pointing out the obvious regarding anything with the mail box.

 There is a post office right by my house that is open an hour later then the one by the office building. Rather then leave and come back I stay the extra ten minutes at work and dropped it off on the way home.

Then there was an email that followed along these lines:

“Subject: Secure Outgoing Mail

There is an outgoing secured mail box here in this building by the elevator. All outgoing mail can be left there. Outgoing mail is picked up daily by the postal carrier at 5:30pm.

If your mail is too large to fit in the slot, It will need to be taken directly to the Post office or other mailbox. If the box should get too full, there is another mail slot available in Building II. Let me know if this happens and we can evaluate the need for a larger box. Please let me know if you have any questions or concerns,

Sincerely, ETC.”

Reader… the outburst that follows is amazing.

The Post Office Field Trip

Employee B and I walk out to her vehicle in the garage with about twenty envelopes in hand. We drive just under three blocks over to the south of the building to park outside the post office. We walk into the post office, we say hello to the people standing in line and walk past all of them to a mail bin at the counter. 

Carefully she puts the envelopes, face out, in the bin.

In front of the six or seven odd people she clearly says her explanation to the curious onlookers as I try to melt into the ATM stamp dispenser behind me, “The only way the mail will be delivered is if it is put into this bin before 5 pm without any rubber bands or paperclips.”

If someone laughed I wouldn't have heard. I had already begun to play the X-files theme song in my head.

The Mail box downstairs...

Every office building I have ever worked in has an outgoing mail box. For that matter, every business, home, etc. has one too. This usually means a person employed by the local post office will be by on some sort of schedule to pick said outgoing mail.

Everyone with me on this one? Just checking. Apparently not everyone is.

Two weeks into working at this new job, I again suggested perhaps our building’s existing outgoing mailbox could be used for outgoing mail including items such as personal electric bills, personal letters and perhaps also Lia Sophia jewelry returns from employees.

“There isn't an outgoing mail box here.” I was told sternly.

I hesitated, not liking to argue but unable to duct tape my mouth shut at the moment, “But… there is…”

Heavy sigh, head shake, and my manager joins the audience of people at my cubes sliding doors (my manager is the one person I do really like) and he cheerfully suggests a field trip.

“A what?” I repeat stupidly.

He grins happily, “You and Employee B should go on a field trip to the post office.”

“But I know where it is.” I say slowly.

His smile becomes bigger as he ignores that and Employee B agrees to take me on a field trip tomorrow afternoon.

The Mailbox...

I am re-entering 'The Office' having accepted a full time position with a good company. I am replacing the position of someone who has been promoted. Co-worker A. Co-worker B is also on hand to train me regarding the importance of the mail as she is the ‘back up’ person I were to be sick or out of the office.

I sit in my chair in my gigantic cubical as they hover at the doors watching me, (yes my cube has doors).

Co-worker B begins, "The mail must be hand delivered at the end of each day at the post office down the street before they close at 5pm"

Co-worker A nods, adding seriously, "Even if we are slammed and you are stuck here, you have leave and make sure you deliver it and then come back to catch up"

I gently suggest, "But as the mail is posted here and the date is stamped on that postage, we could just drop it downstairs in this building's mailbox. It is securely locked and it says there is a pick up at 5:30 pm by the post office."

There is the silence and an exchanged look of horror between the two,

"No, it will not be delivered!" Co-worker B exclaims horrified.

Puzzled I ask, "Why? Have is not been picked up before?"

"We don't have a building mail box!" They say in time, exchanging another look, this one hints of 'maybe the new girl is an idiot.'

I smile politely and wonder when twilight zone music would kick on.