Life Imitating Art

(Image)

Co-Worker X [10:36 AM]:
I'm going to get a coffee - interested?

Me [10:36 AM]:
Normally I'd say yes, but I've got a cup here on my desk. Thanks for asking though.

Co-Worker X [10:41 AM]:
I can't stand the minutiae of my daily life

Me [10:41 AM]:
I hear dat.

Me [10:42 AM]:
Want to vent a bit while getting coffee?

Me [10:42 AM]:
I can bring my cup and you can buy yours.

Co-Worker X [10:42 AM]:
OK

[We leave our desks and go downstairs to the cafe, chat a bit about the challenge of finding fulfillment between 9 and 5. We part with Co-Worker X saying something along the lines of our conversations being nothing short of uplifting. The online chat resumes.]

Me [10:53 AM]:
Yeah, sorry for not being a ray of sunshine.

Co-Worker X [10:54 AM]:
Hey It's not as though I had any light to shine either...

Me [10:54 AM]:
That is true too.

Co-Worker X [10:54 AM]:
Maybe W. had the right idea

Co-Worker X [10:55 AM]:
Then again no property to worry about, no kids, partner?

Me [10:55 AM]:
Yeah, she had the right idea. As did A. It's just harder to ... yeah, exactly.

Co-Worker X [10:55 AM]:
I wish my spouse made lots of money...

Me [10:56 AM]:
I wish my cat would get off her ass and get a job.

Co-Worker X [10:56 AM]:
I don't expect to get any pity from you.

Me [10:56 AM]:
Oh, I pity you all the time.

Co-Worker X [10:56 AM]:
I knew something like that was coming back at me.

Co-Worker X [10:56 AM]:
Ha!

Co-Worker X [10:56 AM]:
The sun is coming out.... ! NOT!

Co-Worker X [10:57 AM]:
What... what's that I just read on your lips! Did you call me fat AGAIN!

Me [10:58 AM]:
I thought I was whispering.

Co-Worker X [10:58 AM]:
As with all disabilities my weight has given me a hightened sense of hearing... remember that.

Me [10:59 AM]:
Oh X. You cut a fine figure, your dream job is just around the corner, and soon all your financial troubles will disappear when you win the lottery!

Me [10:59 AM]:
Yay!

Me [11:00 AM]:
Life is awesome!

Me [11:00 AM]:
Woo!

Co-Worker X [11:01 AM]:
I feel empty.

Me [11:01 AM]:
This is making me think of Beckett.

Co-Worker X [11:01 AM]:
BTW - Happy is not a good fit for you.

Me [11:01 AM]:
Wasn't there a Beckett play called "Happy Times" or something? I'm going to look this up.

Co-Worker X [11:02 AM]:
Alright... I better go before I sinch this noose around my neck.

Co-Worker X [11:02 AM]:
cinch?

Co-Worker X [11:02 AM]:
I can't even spell... and I make a living writing.

Me [11:03 AM]:
"Happy Days" -- that's it.

Me [11:03 AM]:
"Faithfully adhering to Beckett's minimalist original, a black parody of love, marriage, and our search for meaning in an unfathomable universe, the piece consists of but two pathetic characters."

Me [11:04 AM]:
"One, wife Winnie, spends the duration of the drama half-buried in a pile of dirt; in true Beckett fashion, her predicament is never explained. The other character, husband Willie, is almost never seen. Dublin stage and screen veteran Rosaleen Linehan, in the lead, is exceptional as the trapped woman clinging to the empty, arbitrary routines and rituals of life, ever hopeful that 'this is going to be a happy day.' "

Co-Worker X [11:04 AM]:
"....the piece consists of but two pathetic characters." Eerie, eh?

Me [11:04 AM]:
Yes

Co-Worker X [11:05 AM]:
OMG... stop sending me this stuff.


Later that day ...

Co-Worker X [2:39 PM]

GAWD... this SPEC document is killing me!

Me [2:40 PM]:
Do you feel like you're half-buried in a pile of dirt?

Co-Worker X [2:40 PM]:
I actually started incorporating some technical diagrams to better understand it - BIG MISTAKE.

Me [2:40 PM]:
Do you find yourself clinging to the empty, arbitrary routines and rituals of life, ever hopeful that 'this is going to be a happy day'?

Co-Worker X [2:41 PM]:

To compound matters I open a dialogue with you ... another BIG MISTAKE.

In Every Life a Little Rain, Etc.

I haven’t written in a while.

Instead:

I have been going to work and going to yoga and buying groceries and crashing terrasses.

I have been staying home and doing laundry and cleaning surfaces and maintaining right angles.

I have been eating packaged food.

I have been staying up late.

I have been sleeping in my clothes.

And television too. There’s been a lot of that. Bad but good.
(Did you know that Jeff Goldblum is on Law and Order now?)

I have been sad.

Midsummer approaches and I am trying to stay buoyant in deep-sea diving boots.

I’ll write again soon.

Dominique Day Weekend

Flowers on the balcony.

Rhubarb schnapps brewing.

And a niece born today.

Life’s good.

Colour Your World

Bluegrass White

Laurel Mist

Willow Branch
Water Sprout

Palm Breeze
Pine Scent

I am trying to pick a grey-green for the spare bedroom. I am overwhelmed by choice.

Cascading Water
Lily Pond

Moss Mist 
Turtle Dove
 
Spring Hill
Minnesota Pines

I am impressed by the names, in a way. I imagine the effort that went into them was absurd and heroic.

Pastel Sage
Mountain Haze

Steeplechase
White Mantle

I suppose some clever geek could have devised an automatic name generator and simply churned them out. (Such a thing exists. I just asked it to randomly generate five names and I got: Boston Denim, Cloudy Winter, Cobalt Earth, Mountain Strawberry, and Riviera Rose. Who knows what they look like? Do strawberries even grow on mountains? What kind of person chooses Cloudy Winter?)

I prefer to picture liberal arts schlubs sitting around a table piled high with paint samples. Bandying about Victorian Spice and Creamy Persimmon and Peppermint Orange and Heritage Marshmallow.

It could be fun.

Hemlock Bud
Morning Blend

Or soul-sucking.

Mystical Sea

Or both.

Celery Ice

Part of my job involves naming things. But instead of colour, I work in staid software. Recently I collaborated on an application to allow customers to return products through a Web shop interface.

Me: What’s this … Customer Wish? What does that have to do with returns?

Product Manager: This is where the customer tells the vendor what they want.

Me: What do you mean?

PM: Like a replacement product, or a credit or refund.

Me: Well then. No. Customer Wish won't do. Sounds like the Amazon wish list. Besides, Customer Wish is too flimsy. Wishing is something you do on a star. Or blowing out candles. Returning a product and asking for your money back is too straightforward for that.

PM: Ok, how about Wished Processing?

Me: No. No wishing!

In the end I signed off on Requested Action, squelching whimsy in favour of something colder and more transactional.

Brown Ice
Frosty Beige
Frozen Concrete

Taupe Torpor

Vera Diggins, 1919-2010

My last surviving grandparent, Vera Diggins, passed away late last night at age 90.

She was, quite simply, a remarkably kind and decent human being. During my whole life I don't think I ever heard her speak ill of anyone.

My grandparents raised three children and were married 60 years until my grandfather passed away in 2002.

If the definition of a life well lived is to consistently do right by those you love, then I'd have to say that hers was a life very well lived.

Love you, grandma. Rest in peace.

The Hopeless Romantic

[This entry was inspired by my awesome blogger penpal Amanda. See the post that started it all here.]

I have never considered myself a romantic. Romance. I’m not even sure what the term means. When I hear it, the first things that pop to mind are clichés: heart-shaped boxes of chocolate; clasped hands and deep, meaningful gazes across candlelit tables at restaurants shot in soft focus featuring burgundy velour and dark wood paneling; long walks on the beach at sunset; pina coladas; getting caught in the rain.

None of these things are inherently bad. I like chocolate, especially the salty kind. I suppose, given the right context and circumstances, clasping hands with my … my lover (another troubling term) and staring deep into his eyes could make sense (although preferably not in a place with décor reminiscent of a fancy steakhouse, I remain firm on that point). If I were in the vicinity of a body of water and the sun started sinking into it and if I were with a guy, I wouldn’t be all like “Whoa, we’d better take shelter somewhere until the last vestiges of pink and orange have been blotted out by darkness.” No. No way. And pina coladas are delicious. And getting caught in a summer rain shower could be fun if you’re not on your way to a job interview, or halfway home from the market lugging five bags of groceries.

So what’s the problem? The problem is that lately I’ve been asked whether I consider myself a romantic, and to what extent romance is important to me.

How romantic are you?
1. I love lots of romance, it is a necessity for me to feel loved
2. I am romantic, but do not require it
3. I am occasionally romantic
4. I don't consider myself a romantic person
5. _________________________________

Every time I’m hit with this question, I cringe. True, option #4 corresponds with my opening statement, but it still seems wrong for me. I imagine it is the choice a robot would make, or a fish. I don’t like #3 because it sounds too much like option #4, but with brief, lucid flashes of sweet thoughtfulness emerging from an otherwise cold, limp norm. Option #2 has a hint of resignation about it. Option #1 sounds too demanding. My tendency is to go for #5 and try to unpack as much as I can in 200 characters or less.

The other day I was discussing my romantic misgivings with a male friend who is like a brother to me. Part of what makes him like kin is that we can only discuss matters of the heart via electronic communication even though we could just as easily do so face-to-face. After angsting about all of the above and then some, he replied:

Marvin says:
Do you like flowers?

Kim says:
Oh yes! I like those.

Marvin says:
Then you are romantic. Have you ever given someone flowers?

Kim says:
Well, yes. Although we were kind of fighting at the time.

Marvin says:
If the flowers were to make up for something, then you lose points.
In any case, I pity the fool who tries to romance you.

Granted, that last comment is in keeping with the often savage tone of our banter. But it still made me question myself. Am I really that emotionally stunted? Cold? Empty? Brutal?

I would like to think that I am none of those things. I mean, I’ve been brought to tears by TV commercials, never mind full-blown narratives with actual character development to further lure me in and crush me. I am consistently undone by Elbow’s rendition of The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver performed with the BBC Concert Orchestra. I once moved to Australia to be with a guy I’d known for a week. It didn’t work out, but there were no hard feelings in the end. As with most men I’ve been involved with, we were two good people who weren’t so good together. And yes, I have a little cache of mushy fantasies that I never tell anyone about. They’re all swimming around my head as I write this, but don’t ask me to articulate them.

I’m convinced my upbringing has something to do with my ambivalence towards romance. As any armchair psychologist will tell you, our blueprint for relating to others comes from our parents. And mine never really exhibited what might be commonly considered romantic behavior. Not in front of us kids anyway. As mentioned in an earlier post, candlelight didn’t figure prominently in our household. I have no memories of them slow dancing in the living room after dinner to the strains of “Three Times a Lady”. I don’t recall my father ever bringing my mother flowers, although one year for Valentine’s Day he did buy her hubcaps.

This year they will celebrate their 40th wedding anniversary. And from what I can tell, they are happy. There is love between them; love and a bunch of other stuff that accumulates after four decades of togetherness. My friend Kurt refers to his parents as The Bickersons, and I’ve started doing the same with mine. They drive each other nuts, but at least some of the squabbling is comedic. My father is the instigator, and my mother’s role is to react. It’s this tendency towards needling that has influenced how I behave with those I like, as well as those I love. In the monkey-see-monkey-do fashion of children, I have learned that ribbing and zinging are signs of affection.

This hasn’t always served me well. People don’t always get my jokes. Admittedly, a fair number of my attempts at humor fall flat. For example, an ex of mine had interesting hands. They were kind of meaty and I liked them. He once showed me a shot of himself taken in an exotic locale, shortly after emerging from a long session in a hot tub. He was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and his hands appeared swollen and red, dangling as though photo-shopped from a different body. I took all this in, laughed and said something like “Look at you: Fat Hands McGhee!”

I was only teasing. His last name isn’t McGhee, and his hands aren’t really fat. But he was so hurt, because as a child he’d battled weight issues and there I was, apparently suggesting some kind of residual chubbiness. Not at all my intention. I was eventually able to convince him of this, but there are few things as unromantic as vigorous backpedaling after a joke gone wrong. (Interestingly, he later started referring to himself as Fat Hands McGhee, and took to enthusiastically slamming tabletops as the signature move for his adopted moniker.)

Yet humor isn’t in and of itself anti-romantic. Laughing together can be sexy. I guess humor becomes problematic when used as a shield against vulnerability. And maybe that’s what gets me about romance: being vulnerable. When you get past all the prepackaged Hallmark sap and Hollywood cheese that I find so easy to mock, romantic gestures, be they grand or small, are always about pinning your heart to your sleeve. We’ve all been on the giving or receiving end of a failed romantic offering, and it can hurt like blazes.

There is more to a relationship than romance, of course. If someone offered me the choice of writing me a poem, or helping me to paint my apartment, I’d be shoving a paintbrush into his hands faster than he could say, “Roses are red, violets are blue.” Mutual respect, trust, friendship, loyalty, teamwork, shared vision and goals and whole lot of other stuff are, as far as I’m concerned, necessary components for a lasting relationship.

But … all right, yes … romance can make it all that much sweeter. And yes, I’ll admit it: I do like flowers and holding hands and thoughtful gestures both grand and small.

Just don’t tell anyone, okay?

Image source

A Different World

Today was my first day back at the office after ten days spent mostly eating and drinking in the company of friends and family while looking spiffy, or eating and drinking in the company of my cat while looking like I just rolled out of bed.

The holidays are a special time.

Anyways there I was this morning, going through the contents of my inbox when I came across the following from a colleague in Bangalore.

(Note: Some personal and corporate details have been removed in the interest of not getting fired.)
 
______________________________________

From: DJT
Sent: Wednesday, December 30, 2009 4:14 AM
To: DL ST2
Subject: FW: {URGENT} Bangalore Office to close early today


Dear Team,

Today I will be leaving early due to the anticipated unrest in Bangalore city due to the sudden demise of a famous actor. See you tomorrow.

Have a nice day

Thanks and Regards

D
______________________________________

Intrigued, I proceeded to the original forwarded message.

______________________________________
From: Info @ Labs India
Sent: Wednesday, 30 December 2009 2:35 PM
To: DL SLI BLR ALL
Subject: {URGENT} Bangalore Office to close early today

FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY

Dear Colleagues,

As you would be aware, earlier today one of the legendary actors from the Kannada film industry, Dr. Vishnuvardhan passed away due to a cardiac arrest.

We anticipate unrest in many parts of Bangalore city, with the actor's fans taking to the streets and disrupting normal life today. Hence as a precautionary measure, we have decided to close the Bangalore office early at 2:45 P.M.

All colleagues are requested to take the shuttles starting this time. We also request colleagues who have their own vehicles to leave by this time as well. The regular evening shuttles (5:15 PM, 7:05 PM and 9:30 PM) and the late evening cab services stand cancelled.

We will continue to monitor the situation closely. For further updates, please call the hotline.

Best Regards,
Crisis Management Team
Labs India
______________________________________

Here is Dr. Vishnuvardhan:

R.I.P.

No Canadian performer could elicit such a response. If Donald Sutherland dropped dead on the sidewalk outside my office, we’d still be open for business up on the fourth floor. If Anne Murray, Elvis Stojko, Michael J. Fox, Pamela Anderson, Alex Trebek, and the original members of Steppenwolf were in a private jet that exploded over the Lachine Canal, it still wouldn’t be enough to paralyze local industry. If the Montreal Canadiens and Team Canada simultaneously won the Stanley Cup and the gold medal respectively, during business hours, I’ll wager the ensuing frenzy would take place mostly on Ste. Catherine Street, with a few yahoos disrupting the celebrations.

But over in my neck of the woods, projects would continue to be managed, code developed, and documentation written. 
 
In any case, I'd be into tracking down a few Vishnuvardhan titles. Apparently the guy was good.


UPDATE: Since posting this entry, my friend and co-worker Molly has suggested that a big Habs win could actually provoke a fair bit more mayhem than I've described. True, but I still say that it wouldn't be enough for the Montreal office to shut down pre-emptively.