Day of no inspiration, tragic art, and little blue flags

No inspiration. Generally, I struggle (though quietly and with as little energy expended as possible, viz. efficiently) to be laid back at work. You know, smiling knowlingly and comfortingly at my associate colleagues when something has them irritated, sipping coffee in the morning and green tea in the afternoon, committing myself to some dark chocolate after a light lunch, occasionally saying a little prayer on the rosary or gazing up at my little prayer flags (an unsolicited gift from the "Save Tibet" campaign), especially the blue one (that's Robert Thurman's fault), listening to country music or my French earworm, and occasionally doing hip openers on the floor under my desk. But over the last few days, it has been very difficult to keep being so relaxed. The culprit? Work has slowed down for the practice group. It is in this no-work environment that the type A personality becomes indomitable. Because when there is nothing to do, well, it's impossible to relax. All the lounging around is extremely stressful, and the only antidote is extraordinary lethargy. It's as though the only option is to find something to do, such as chewing your nails to the quick, jabbering at a colleague until you lose focus and say something regrettable, or just giving up on living all together and entering a sort of stupor. The risks of the former are too dire. Consequently, I'm having trouble getting out of my chair.

Not all associates are like this. Some are absolutely crazy.

Birth of Tragedy. So, it's been said that lethargy can come from too much knowing, that once you see the world for what it is, your will to act is done for. You're glued. Resistance is futile. You understand why Ophelia jumped, but like Hamlet, you found out too much before you had the chance to act. The result? Silly ranting, in rhyme if you're lucky. One remedy that has been suggested is art. In other words, someone else telling you that they've been bored too, or have at least noticed how absurd it all is.

Maybe I should google up some art.

Traveling by bus. Amy, my wife, best friend, favorite person, and "mother" of my dog (all the same person), is truly living some art this weekend. She's headed to Farmville, VA with some Congressfolks and other notables. By bus, but with a four policecar escort who block the interstate everytime the bus enters or exits. While riding in the royal coach she's chatting it up with international religious figures and some of our elected officials. She's pierced the celebrity veil, gotten close enough to engage these folks as regular people. An exceptional experience, and I hope none of them let her down.

Today's rule: to figure out how to leave work before 6 without feeling like I'm sneaking out.

Tough Guy

A Very Special Little Yogi. Last night, I went to yoga, still sore from the bike ride home the day before. Essentially, a nice looking young woman in tight clothes gently instructed me to put myself in incredibly uncomfortable positions on a ridiculously thin mat. I complied with every request, no matter how impossibly absurd her instructions were. "Spin your heart to the ceiling, breathe into your kidneys, push out your heels while pulling them inward." Her persuasive talents seem to be a function of her obvious athleticism, tight yoga clothes, her control over the exotic, world beat music in the background, a sort of California accent that suggests deep knowledge about New Age ancient wisdom, and the ability to whisper in Sanskrit.

Beat by a Girl. This morning I made the 45 minute bike ride to work, down the Capitol Crescent trail, downhill almost the whole way. An amazing trip, and since commuting normally takes exactly the same amount of time but requires travel by car, train, and foot, I feel that the bike commute may become the norm. Weather was clear and cool, and the trail itself runs along the river much of the route. I was feeling quite the athlete cruising along on my hybrid until I was nearly forced off the road by a girl in bike clothes and on a real road bike. I attempted to keep up, but was quickly left in the dust, trying not to care and saying things to myself like, "I may be slower, but I bet you didn't know that you just ran over a Broad Dock leaf."

Just Plain Dominated. At lunch, a normally very self-possessed coworker (in the sense of thoughtful, sort of quiet, not one to blab), named Gina, who is a confessed former Goth (though then only Goth lite and now frequently seen wearing pastel A-line skirts and cute girly shoewear) remarked to me and my colleagues that I would probably look good in a dog collar and leash, you know, because of my fair skin and all.

After lunch, I came back to the office, turned up the French, sat on the floor, and ate some chocolate.

Today's rule: figure out why I think I'm pretty tough, when evidence seems to go the other way.

Self-medicating and an Empty Head Full of French

Hole in the head. As it turns out, Earworms, although extremely effective, seem to hollow out your head while filling it with French, Italian, or whatever language you're cramming in. After two days, I feel quite comfortable ordering une bouteille de vin from some random woman with a sexy French accent; however, it has come at the cost of a splitting headache. The sort of toothache kind, a sort of hollow pain. Around three this afternoon, I was wondering what the problem was, a headache accompanied by an unshakeable ennui. So, being somewhat underworked anyway, I took a walk to Starbucks to grab a "short" and the parfait cookie, the molasses chew. My mind cleared, though it did take a while for it to fill back up again with the nonsense of city life. And my ennui resisted, turning a little nasty, annoyed, before settling into my more normal bemusement. And as I was reflecting, resisting judgment, on the juxtaposition of homeless folks hanging out in the little park in front of the World Bank, or begging at the corner of my law firm (one of the most expensive in the world), I figured out what my problem was. Bien sur! All that French.

Today's rule: Whenever I realize that I'm feeling down, I must self-medicate immediately, before it gets out of control.

Blab/Think

Blabbing. I have no problem with talking, even talking a great deal. In fact, the only reason why I feel any discomfort at all when I realize that I have been talking "forever" or that I've "dominated" a conversation is because I've been told that it: (1) can make others feel "less than" or remind them that they are timid, and (2) people will think less of me. And honestly, I feel comfortable with this situation. As I see it, my natural instinct is to commune, but I have a healthy balance between altruistic concern for others and vanity that curbs my enthusiasm for it.

Some people feel totally in tune with their surroundings when they silently observe. Some may even argue that listening, being passive, is the only way to commune with a particular setting. This admonishment seems somewhat obvious to me as nonsense, simply effective revenge by passive aggressives. Proof of this, not definitive, merely circumstantial, is that such prescriptions are reserved for art museums, "nature", and counseling. I narrow in on these as proof of the limitations of the irritating preaching of silence, because I agree that there are settings in which it is better to listen, than to speak. Theater, for example. When your best friend, or anyone really, is crying about some personal pain. Or, when riding an elevator. And certainly, I agree that you must at some point shut up in order to listen or pay careful attention. It does no good to blab your way through a nature walk. You'll miss the all the quiet critters and flora.

My problem with the philosophy that depth can only occur in silence is that it misses the magical, organizational quality of communication. To communicate means that you have to classify and organize, build up a new thoughts on the foundation of previously communicated ones. It requires intellectual discipline.

So, while an art museum is beautiful, inspiring, and affirming (in that it reminds you how sophisticated you must be because you went to a liberal arts school), it is sublime when you spout off about your thoughts on the significance of a work. Doing it loud enough for someone more knowledgeable to overhear, but not enough to disturb everyone else, is the best strategy. Sharing your ignorance, and your audacious enthusiasm to learn, should please everyone that overhears. Some will feel better than you, and the real gems in the crowd will find your enthusiasm infectious. And if you're lucky, some member of the latter club will offer you an unsolicited fact or vignette about the work, or your thought processes.

Even nature must be talked about. My enthusiasm for identifying random weeds in ditches, fields, the side of roads, etc. depends upon my enthusiasm for sharing the information. The most exciting thing is to talk with someone about some ignored little wildflower, a "weed", whether about the actual taxonomy, its medicinal properties, whether its edible or poisonous, or to wax philosophical about nature, the existential reality of weeds v. that of "cultivated" plants, etc., etc. Talking is sort of knowledge in motion. It's fluid, unpolished, raw, and, importantly, it's impossible to remember what was said. Relying on the spoken word, when not recorded, relieves a lot of tension, loosens peoples minds. There's no worry that someone can alter your words later, or perhaps, that you'll be forced to change what you remember someone said. (The written word can create an unfortunate intractability in thinking, after all.)

Today's rule: not to test the limits of the value of blabbing.

Shrimping at Dupont

Slow day. Today's crawled along, not that the day seemed to last forever, because, in fact, it went by very quickly. No, the day was not rushed. No one attempted to impose "hurry" on the mandala. Today was easy, relaxed. It will be brushed away effortlessly, a few memorable moments, but the rest of was just easy living. Two high points were the bike ride in to work (my inaugural bike commute) and swinging up to Dupont at noon to get fresh Gulf shrimp from Louisiana shrimpers attempting to remind "us" that they exist down there. It was somewhat moving to watch them scooping out the graywhite shrimp into plastic bags, just giving it away. There was a sense of plenty, a sense of easy natural wealth, as though one of my childhood neighbors back home had just come in from a day throwing a castnet and had plenty of shrimp to share. And I have to admit, I love that fecund, brackish, bayou shrimp smell. It's just this side of stink. Right before it happens. But still sweet. I asked if anyone was from Mississippi. Nope, all Louisianians. One woman I chatted with lost everything, home of 57 years, fleet of boats, and her husband. He committed suicide after Katrina. Beautiful sunny day, weather's perfect, and she could enjoy it. Very pleasant, hardy. That's pain: to suffer such loss and then confront a gorgeous day and live it as beautifully as it presents itself to you. There's nothing numbing about that pain. It seems like that would be the type of pain that you grin and bear, pushing your way through to some sort of joy.

Very pretty weekend. And I have to admit that ole atmosphere lite v5.5 played quite a role. On Sunday the weather was bright, sunny, clear, and breezy. Nonetheless, hearing the sounds of the waves crashing on shore, with seagulls, and the occasional far off boat horn, really made for a romantic afternoon. Add some other flourishes, the fresh smell of eucalyptus and a tart cranberry spritzer...oh yes, and your wife...and it makes for a serious afternoon. The coup de grace was really the soft thumps of "Ooh Baby, I did it again..." playing on the CD player. Without it, we would have just been on the beach. But with Britney, we were on the beach in Thailand. A serious boost in the romance factor.

Today's rule: To feel the "dude" within, and abide.

Day 3 - Success as a function of emotional investment and fear of failure: this in light of Earworms, polyamory, and baldness.

Earworms. This morning, after returning to my office from foraging for coffee, I was somewhat startled, really alarmed, by the sound of a horse neighing. It was only a very brief moment, but enough to confirm that my atmosphere lite v5.5 had too effectively suspended my disbelief. I had suspicions yesterday, after feeling an even more powerful ennui than in days past. Under normal circumstances I would be inclined to blame this on what a colleague today called an "unfulfilling job." Considering that this colleague, let's call him "Reid," had earlier spent almost half an hour working with me to express, mathematically, success-in-school as a function of the relationship of emotional investment to fear of failure, the "unfulfilling job" had a definite ring of authenticity.

Parenthetically. I should explain before moving on, "Reid" and I had started with these assumptions: (1) we were/are decently bright; (2) we were/are underachievers; (3) although we believed/believe this, it's not true; and (4) no. 3 is true because we actually had no choice about how afraid of failure we were and thus could not have applied ourselves any more to our schoolwork than we did. What made this project just plain gorgeous is the very limited mathematical skills that we jointly possess. Thus, we could draw some graphs, write f(x,y) , etc., etc. on the board, exclaim "yes, yes, but..." while wiping away white chalk with our hands, even yell "right, right, my good man..." while slapping each other on the shoulder throwing all caution to the wind and leaving chalk marks on our sport coats. Truly thrilling when you consider that we had to admit complete failure in the end. Especially, when the whole thing started because we both casually expressed a disappointment in how little math we remembered from college.

Atmosphere Lite v5.5. My suspicion that v5.5 may be more than I could handle developed yesterday when it dawned on me that my laziness could actually be a result of a subconscious belief that I was actually sitting in a Herman Miller chair outside, brushing up against daisies and shooing ladybugs off my laptop. My personal mix that I created, entitled "Country Puppy with Soft Water," has soft running water, field crickets, birds, cows, sheep, horses, and the occasional puppy bark. Extremely realistic.

My inspiration to rid the world's loan contracts of language offensive to lawyers was even lower today than yesterday. And that horse brought it all home. I needed a change. So, today, I'm learning French. Jheshersinbanc apparently means, "I'm looking for a bank," in French. Earworms plays French phrases rhythmically to music softly in the background while you work, imprinting the language on your brain. It's perfect.

Breaking with reality. Baldness. Today's struggle against complacent disregard for reality was somewhat fueled by a very pleasant evening last night. I attended an event for my little law school scholars program. We're forming an alumni board, and the school was kind enough to buy food and drinks if we arranged for one of us, the aspiring alumni board president, to say a few official sounding words and suggest that we form committees. Another rule: hand out pens to mark the occasion. Although it wasn't said outloud, apparently distributing these pens, not so fancy, but with a holster, made the event official. Committees and pens. I'm not kidding.

The evening was a blast, we had a huge room in a Mexican restaurant named, "Place of the Handsome Ones" in Spanish, reserved for about twenty folks. Perfect party space. Lots of light, no loud music, no smoke, lots of space, and free drinks. And we could order "cualquier cosa," beer, margarita, you name it. The conversations I was privy to? Race relations in the country's liberal divinity schools, criminalization of deviant sexual desire (especially that directed at children), value/detriment of pornography in American culture, when is the appropriate time for a guy that's balding (that's me) to just shave it all off, the injustices of the banking system in the context of credit attainment from the perspective of socio-economic status, and Greek tragedy (a very short discussion (2-3 minutes), reflecting the sum total of the knowledge of everyone in the room on the subject). What was wonderful about all of that was how naturally the topics flowed from one to the other, effortlessly, with a certain sincere concern for the answers. It wasn't cocktail party talk.

I'd be remiss if I didn't add that two women proposed and another suggested that men who bald confidently are sexy. Although other interpretations are available, I choose to take the first two offers quite seriously and modestly affirm the observation on confident baldness.

Today's rule: I will display savoir-fair in my baldness, eventually.

April 20, 2006 - Commerce, hydroponics, and effortless blogging

Commerce. Yesterday, I received some more frames to try from eyeglasses.com. They'll send you frames to try, for free. You return them and have them put lenses in the ones that you want. Unfortunately, you have to involve your optometrist in the process, because they provide you with the prescription and measure your head for the frames. That's unfortunate, because my optometrist also sells eyeglasses. And I have to say, I felt a little guilty going down there to have them fit me for free, only to buy glasses from someone online. So much so that I couldn't admit that I was already in the final stages of the purchase process; instead I just sort of skirted the issue with the optometrist's assistant by describing the online process and explaining (without invitation) that I was in the process of "shopping around." Of course he knew what was happening and managed to get a couple of digs in on the inferiority of the online process (also unsolicited).

I received my frames via my address at the firm which had them delivered to my office, as a courtesy. They also delivered my little in-office hydroponics system (ordered online) that arrived yesterday ( a rather large box). While this arrangement is an official courtesy; I'm still freeloading. And I should add: all of this shopping online is done in my office using a firm computer.

So, I'm wondering why I don't feel any apprehension about using the office as my personal concierge and loading dock, while I'm uneasy about asking my optometrist, who has already received some cold hard cash from me for other services, to do a service they quite readily perform for free.

A more important question, however, is: what am I going to grow in my new hydroponic nursery? I'm thinking that a bean plant, a vine, crawling across my desk would be pretty cool. It'd look nice complemented with some herbs, something to make tea out of, maybe chrysanthemums. Eventually, the office will become more alive than dead. At the moment, dead stuff is winning. But the other office plants are growing, although a recent outbreak of scales on my umbrella tree threatened the balance. The addition of row crops to the ferns, bromeliade, peace lily, etc. may be just what's necessary.

I downloaded atmosphere lite v5.5 for the laptop yesterday. The result is gurgling water flow, crickets, mooing and bleating, and the occasional puppy bark wafting through the foliage. With any luck, my office will return to its natural state. This would result, I'm thinking, in it being overlooked in the short term (like a vacant lot) by others in the firm, and, of course, eventually, it would be seen as a natural resource worth protecting (sort of urban wilderness). Just maybe, the firm might forget about me altogether, my office and I would just sort of settle into a state-of-being similar to white noise. Perfect.

Today's rule, and it's a difficult one: this blog cannot become yet another obligation. It must be fun and effortless or it must die. As a rule, therefore, this blog cannot be worth the effort it takes to write it. If that ever occurs, It's over.

Day 1 - the Beginning

April 19, 2006 -day 1 - The beginning

The beginning, naming, and rulemaking.

Guess I'll give this blog thing a try. Seems to give the idea of a diary a little more import if there's the possibility that someone may read it. Not sure why. In fact, the idea of someone reading it is a little horrifying. And yet, blogging seems to provide all the benefits of talking, even though no one's around to listen, and yet you aren't talking to yourself. Brilliant.

There is another reason, however. A sort of amorphous unnamed, as of yet, reason that formed while I was reading one of my ex-girlfriend's present partner's blog [try and unravel that], the mundane nature of the entries really struck me, as a sort of inspiration. You could imagine that you understood what made the guy tick by reading what he remembered to write at the end of the day. Obviously you have to assume that some of the more interesting things had to be censored. But nonetheless, his life seemed to revolve around waking up, eating, and maybe a short description of what errands he ran. Now he's a musician, so he has the luxury (or perhaps insecurity) of having days that are somewhat unstructured, and that made his days seems somewhat more easy to read. I have the feeling that most of us would leave work out of our day, and the remaining bit of the day would probably be the content of our blog. Two conclusions rise on the horizon here: (1) his days appeared to sketch out a sort of primal existence - food, girl, forage, some productive tool-making or shelter acquisition (a few minutes working on some music), food, sleep, etc. and, (2) it seems bizarre that I assumed that his day would be less structured and that work would somehow need to be left out of my diary/blog. After all, when I come to work, all I've done is change locations and, maybe, pretend to be confined to a smaller space, my office. Certainly as much must happen in this little posh cage as if I was roaming around outside of it, right? I guess that means I should start hunting around for something to do.

Let's see...some rules for my new blog. First rule, I will attempt to name each day. I've had enough graduate school education to know that if I name it, I control/own it. Thus, I hereby invoke the power to name. Second rule, I will write a new rule every time I do a new blog entry. I am a lawyer, after all, and this only seems natural.