The Death of Imagination

In the end, I didn't need to get those nasturtium seeds in the ground first thing Wednesday morning--we didn't have any rain worth mentioning until the next day--but it felt good to do so. When I got home I actually dragged the Old Man out to the garden and showed him in order to collect a pat on the head. (I'd even suspect his eye-rolling reaction to being informed of my intentions was to goad me into action if not for the fact that he's really terrible at dissembling.)

Today I stole a minute as I was rushing out the door to stuff two baggies with woodruff for one coworker and sorrel for another. I apologised to the latter for not having a chance to wash it, but she told me her grandmother always said "Dreck reinigt den Magen" and intended to eat it as is. With the woodruff, I was a bit disappointed that its resemblance to cannabis didn't seem to strike anyone, despite my attempts to play it up with comments like, "First whiff is free!"

I was hoping this might finally be the weekend we get our damn hanging baskets done, but the way I feel this morning bodes ill. It feels like the second relapse of this cold from hell. At least this time I'm more willing to work through it, since resting up apparently did me no good at all. Besides, the laundry isn't going to do itself.

At work we're learning something called "Resource Description and Access". You don't really need to know anything about it except that it's exactly as tedious as it sounds. To keep awake during our weekly discussions, I have to focus on any shiny bit of fluff that blows through the room. Recently, we were tackling the sticky subject of how the standards apply to compilations and collections. Some of our examples were songbooks and one of the song titles which leapt out at me was "The House Carpenter". I made some smartalecky remark about it and a colleague of mine responded, "I actually know that one."

A couple days later, nihilistic_kid posted this:

I came into work today because I had no real reason not to. We're open (although not to the public) and I'm no longer out of town. Part of me was hoping my parents would come up with some excuse for me to take today off, but the plan was "second Christmas" at my stepsister's and, in the words of my real sister, "Looks like separate but equal is how we do things now."

It was a bit of a rough start, what with me narrowly missing both the shuttle and the train. (I had one of those mornings where you glance at the clock and realise it's four minutes later than you thought and you have no idea how that happened.) Then it went express, so I made my particular style of lemon-from-lemonade and had a big breakfast at Dixie Kitchen. (Too big, my tummy is telling me now.)

But ultimately I'm glad I came in because it is truly gorgeous outside right now. I didn't think there'd be more snow after last night, but it was flurrying as I left. Sitting on the train platform, I watched the snow clump to form huge fluffy flakes for a bit. It's my favourite kind of snow: softly falling and a bit wet, so it limns every branch and cornice. The meadow spreading west of work is heartbreakingly beautiful right now. Honestly, I have to look away before it hurts to look at it.

Also, the mood at work is cheerful, almost festive. The bosses are out, things are slow. I brought in some of monshu's Lebkuchen and they netted gasps of delight. Management decided to order pizzas for everyone (not that you could've paid me to eat them--they were from Papa John's--but it magnified the spirit of goodwill) and Father Frost left me chocolates again. Actually getting anything done today is turning out to be an afterthought more than anything else.

I'm wondering how much more of this weirdly variable weather we need before it no longer registers as bizarre and a range of ±10℃ from the average seems normal whatever the season. The high today was 20℃. I made a point of eating my apple-cinnamon froyo on a bench outside underneath the municipal holiday decorations so I could revel in the surreality of it all.

The Old Man and I didn't dine out on the porch, though we easily could have, and afterwards I met up with BDA and SLA and we went for a stroll to the Lake and back. It wasn't my intention to take the both of them. I don't think it was SLA's intention either, but for whatever reason he couldn't find a way to say no to his soon-to-be-ex. That perhaps explains a thing or two. (I was just browsing their Facebook pages and noticed that BDA's says "In a relationship" but SLA's doesn't. That kinda sums things up.)

It was an easy day at work. The biggest concerns wound up being what happened to the departmental Christmas tree and the sad story of the café manager, who had her pocket picked just after cashing her biweekly check. My burly bear coworker took up a collection for her and came to me for help because "I don't know what I'm doing with this shit." I managed to find him at least one other contributor.

I cared much less about the Christmas tree, but after being quizzed by two coworkers about it, I ended up making a joking reference in the company of another and found that she remembered exactly where it had been stowed. So I was able to finish off the day by wheeling it into the cubicle of La Vache like some sort of mad elf. She's Jewish, by the way--Orthodox--but as I explained to monshu, it seems that any social activity that frees her from doing her actual work is okay in her book.

I haven't said anything so far about the last couple of Cardinals game because the less said about them the better. I do think that Lynn has gotten unfairly scapegoated for his bad throw to the bag in Game 5. A couple extra runs here or there is immaterial if the opposing pitcher is able to completely shut out your offence. Same goes for last night. Am I disappointed in Carpenter's performance? Of course I am. But I'm more worried about the hitting. If the Cards can't get more than one run off of Vogelsong in fourteen innings, what on earth are they going to do when faced with Verlander? At least the fielding recovered; I told monshu that it was like watching one of those underdog movies where some spell/mcguffin that is handicapping our heroes is miraculously removed halfway through the big conflict.

Knowing the next couple days would be wet, I'd fully intended to get outside for a walk on Sunday afternoon, but somehow it just didn't happen. I could blame the cold I'm coming down with but, truth be told, it didn't really begin to blossom until today. At least this time around I made sure to have my zinc handy, since this really isn't a week I can afford to be sick. A new project has landed in my lap at work and I've got until the end of the week to wrap it up. It's in a building across the meadow from here, so at least it gets me outside, and on the way there's a truly stunning sugar maple in full scarlet drag. The dogwoods are turning as well, as are the Bradford pears; not long now until we'll be left with nothing but bare branches.

So Dad's at home resting the new knee. You hear a lot of stories of hospitals being in a rush to discharge people, but he actually had to nag his doctor and push the staff to get released. Knowing Dad, he'll try to figure out how long it takes most people to recover from this sort of surgery and then see if he do it in half the time. His wife was out when I called so he talked my ear off until she got back as I struggled not to fall asleep in the comfy chair. Naturally we'll miss our annual outing to Door County, so he's suggested we compensate by heading somewhere southerly this winter.

Somehow I managed to give monshu my cold while still keeping it for myself. (Funny how that works.) He stayed home the whole day; I pushed through the morning but just couldn't face an afternoon of answering noob questions and buggered out at one. It might've turned out differently had Pablo made it into work, but in his absence I had to deal with someone from a neighbouring department who genuinely couldn't comprehend why I wouldn't be interested in hearing a detailed account of how she proposed to solve a cataloging problem relating to the reissue of Midsomer Murders when all I needed to know was that Pablo had a plan and he would put it into action on Monday.

Fortunately I managed to remember we had some manaqeesh in the refrigerator, so dinner tonight was a bit less basic than just a can of Progresso minestrone. While rooting around, I uncovered a ball of Mürbeteig left over from the Pflaumenkuchen and was able to surprise my better half with a mini-tartlet. The cherry jam he'd picked up at Gene's and only just opened was so chunky I was able to treat it just like pre-made pie filling.

The one unexpected pleasure of the morning was what I hope was my last interview of the year. She was so earnest, sweet, and self-deprecating that I found myself actually hoping my current first choice would have accepted a job elsewhere so I could offer the position to her. But not only hadn't he, he made it clear that he was holding off on accepting another offer until he heard from me, so that clinched it. Now the best she can hope for is a personalised letter honestly expressing what a difficult decision she made it.

Our plans for tomorrow are kind of in shambles at this point. Awkwardly, we have houseguests coming--one of them rather germ-phobic. For all I know the Old Man is going to be sending the whole day in bed, meaning we might have to call off dinner with Turtle and her wife. I'll most likely still make it to Game Night, but I might not stay long. And we might not have any mooncakes for the Mid-Autumn Festival, but I imagine the moon will rise grandiosely all the same.

I felt surprisingly good yesterday--no hangover, no sleep lost to reflux, and my cold no worse. As monshu was preparing the broth for the lamb gravy, I told him I wanted to come along on the Clark Street errands. I was almost as surprised at myself as he was.

We started off at Foster and worked our way north. That gave us an opportunity to check out the new pet shop, Jameson Loves Danger, which is finally open in the old Fast Frame space. What it lacks in size and selection, it makes up for in cleanliness, freshness, and convenience. Ruff 'n Stuff should be worried. I asked about a replacement clump of feathers for our cat's favourite toy; we were told those hadn't come in yet, but the clerk quickly found us a comparable substitute. They also carry his favourite dry food.

We also passed by the chain-bistro replacement for Prestige. A couple of bear pals of mine were inside about to order lunch; I told them to give me a report. On the way out, I looked over the menu and noticed that their croque monsieur is made with béchamel. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE? It was another reminder that I'd blown off breakfast, so I talked the Old Man into letting me stop in the Jewish deli for a bagel. While there I saw a family unit leave disappointed that the New York-style bagels weren't actually flown in from NYC. (monshu heard them complain of "false advertising" on the way out.)

After that, we dropped into Gethsemane for mums. The caladiums aren't going to hold out much longer in this weather and it would be nice to replace them with something colourful for the last month or so of making use of the back deck. I saw a lovely container for the front yard at a nice price, but the GWO didn't want to put money down on it without consulting with the remaining members of the landscaping committee. I protested that they certainly never consulted with us before making their purchases, but that's just not how the man operates. Hopefully it will still be there later this week.

Once home, I called my mother and we talked for nearly two hours. Some of that was getting family news, notably an update on her visit to her cousins in Dallas, but much of it was stepping waist-deep into a kerfuffle between her and my sister over the genealogical materials collected by my deceased aunt. She'd been tight-fisted with them during her life, so Mom saw her opportunity to make off with a box and did it. Problem is my sister had already assumed responsibility for the collection and she didn't want it broken up before we could take inventory of what we had.

All of this touched a raw nerve of Mom's and exposed a much deeper rift than anyone was expecting, which led to a furious phone call last Thursday from my sister looking to vent. I told them they clearly needed to sit down together and look beyond the specific incident so they could air some of the grievances they've let fester. (My mom is a terrific one for doing that.) Today I heard that they'd done that and it ended without resolving anything. That's no surprise to me; I told them issues this big and emotional are going to take several sessions to deal with properly.

Meanwhile, the Old Man was roasting a leg of lamb, baking mashed potatoes, and sautéeing green beans and squash in sage butter. He washed his down with a Muga which I regretfully allowed myself only a sip of. Afterwards we sat outside on the porch to make short work of a honeycrisp apple, some roast almonds, and a healthy chunk of smoked cheddar (which he washed down with some Laphraoig). We also booked the tickets for our trip to St Louis in November for Dad's 70th, which briefly resulted in a near heart attack for me when I saw the prices and thought they'd doubled since last I checked them. (In my defence, I have never ever booked Amtrak tickets for two before, so it was natural that I would forget I was looking at combined fares.)

Thanks to my sobriety, I didn't suffer from reflux last night, but I did wake up around 4 a.m. all the same and struggle to fall asleep for over an hour. As a result, I had a sluggish morning and missed the shuttle. (I probably could've made it if not for the added handicap of having to rehang the shower curtain after letting the liner dry out.) Actually, the rub of it was that I probably could've left late and still made it, given how delayed the next one was (construction on LSD for the next six weeks). Fortunately, it was an easy day, even if it did involve sorting through twenty five applications for my open position, half of which seem to have been submitted by people who didn't actually read the description.

Today around lunchtime my workplace staged a performance of John Cage's 4'33" in honour of the centennial of his birth. They did it DIY-style, so it had some of the feel of a happening. One of my colleagues brought a surf guitar. (Requests to play "Miserlou" or "Rock Lobster" fell on deaf ears.) Another had a didgeridoo. The head of Africana played a vuvuzela. There were two people with tin cans and a length of string.

The conductor used the same time intervals as in the original performance, i.e. 33", 2'20", and 1'40". He signaled the start of each movement with a downbeat and the end by lowering the baton. Some performers held their instruments on their laps, others readied them as if to play. Pablo held a set of headphones attached to an iPod queued up for Lou Reed's Metal Machine Music (which he played during the tune-up phase). At the beginning of each movement, he turned on the power to the headphones, and shut if off at the end.

The silence would've been exquisite if not for damn fool photographer shooting it all with one of those antique cameras with a mechanical shutter. I seriously wanted to ask him to knock it off. Afterwards, a young guy asked my big bear colleague for a try on his didgeridoo. Whereas BBC failed to get a decent tone out of it, this guy played a mini concert in-between explaining his circular breathing technique. I was so rapt I clean forgot about the cheese platter in the next room.

Twenty years ago, when I first entred the world of full-time paid employement, I didn't realise that there are two kinds of institutions in this world: those which ascribe to an authoritarian model, and those which do not. And it was another decade or before I would come to realise that, in the world of paid work, those in the second group are but a tiny percentage, consisting mostly of such marginal enterprises as small cooperatives, idealistic non-profits, and techy start-ups, all predominately concentrated on the Left Coast.

The more practical division is between those which openly acknowledge that they are authoritarian in conception and those which don't. It's hard for me to really judge where one category predominates over the other--probably because there's no clear dividing line. You could end up working for the one openly tyrannical manager in an otherwise warm-and-fuzzy corporation or the one progressive one in an overwhelmingly backwards-looking operation. But whether it's chiefly because the positions I've held have been in academic operations or at firms located in Midwest ("Where passive-aggressiveness is king!"), I've always ended up at the latter.

I'm not at all surprised that some many overseers can subscribe to the doublethink of describing their unit as a "family" while treating it like a fiefdom. After all, I've seen how they live the rest of their lives. But it is still kind of weird to me how our society as a whole can spend so much of its time fetishising "democracy" while fatalistic accepting that, practically speaking, it's a rare bird outside the realm of electoral politics and some volunteer activities. Like class, it isn't something most people even seem capable of participating in a dialogue about. Everyone bitches about work, but anyone who seriously proposes changes to the status quo is derided as a crank. Is it the same as with our dominant economic model: The majority accept the inequalities because they still fantasise about coming out on top?

Did I ever have those fantasies? I've been so cynical for so long I can't even remember. For years, it was enough to earn my little wage for being left alone to do my work. But when you're a manager, your work also includes sticking up for your employers, and that puts you on a collision course with the Powers That Be. I've thought about jumping ship, but as I mentioned before, the only employers I can see that are conceived progressively enough to be qualitatively different on this score are also lower-paying, less stable, or both. And since I long ago came to the conclusion that I value comfort and stability too much to hop from one shop to another, here I am, still in bed with the devil I know and, like everyone else, trying to find the best balance I can between earnings and integrity.

When finally I was able to take lunch today, I was so ready for it I was almost punchy. I sang "Iko Iko" the whole way to Dixie Kitchen, increasing the volume when necessary to frighten off the ubiquitous chamuggers. Once there, I mulled before settling on the fried chicken; it seems so mundane I forget that I virtually never eat it any more. I ordered a Blackened Voodoo, forgetting that they no longer carried it, so my earnest server began reciting the whole beer list, starting with their seasonal pick, which immediately caught my fancy. I cut him off with the words, "You had me at 'chicory stout'."

It was a Dogfish Head beer and a tasty one, too. I told the manager who was responsible for selecting it that it was a pleasant alternative to some of the oversweet stouts coming out these days. Even though my colleague had warned me away from the beignets, calling them "greasy", I inquired anyway, figuring they wouldn't have them outside of brunch hours in any case. I was wrong, and so was she; they may not have been as fluffy as those at Big Jones, but they didn't have any more oil in them than necessary.

I felt I deserved a little indulgence after my obnoxious morning. I had an hour to prepare for a morning meeting and I burned it teaching coworkers how to use the calendar function in Outlook and ranting about a request for several Japanese titles. Seven years these have languished due to a lack of provision for their processing, finally I put them into storage, and not a week later a prof goes and requests ten of them. Worse, I thought I knew exactly where to find them, and when I didn't I ended up going through at least five locations in two buildings. Now there are only six we can't find.

This brought me to my afternoon meaning, which was so full of institutional stupidity I don't even know where to start. [Hon, look away if you don't want to spoil our dinner conversation tonight.] Foremost was the revelation that one of the units is putting overflow materials in a lower level location without changing the records to reflect this. When called on it, they reportedly said they'd soon be hiring a new person who would "fix" it all. Great idea! Then I made an innocent inquiry about a couple of "temporary" stores of materials in our area and found out (a) one is really a permanent working backlog and (b) the other is caught in a tax-related wrangle between our institution and the donors.

Oh, and how could I forget the news that the IM software which everyone in the department was required to take classes in and log into daily so that the head can keep track of our whereabouts is scheduled to go away soon, but we will not be immediately adopting its replacement because--according to our head--we have "too much on our plates already". The department we deal the most with is switching, and there's no interoperability between the two systems. Which effectively means that I'll have to run both--one to keep my boss happy, and one to actually use. WHEEEE!!!