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magistrate, a computer virus

January 31, 2017
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I spent several days running different kinds of antivirus and restorative techniques. But it was super fucked beyond my competency to repair. Rather the correct and safest thing to do with an infected “black box” is wipe it clean. So I junked it for Ubuntu. Not just to be practical; the power port is still broken and the specs are obsolete, this is not a practical machine.

His login was “Magistrate”, which was particular about him. It belonged to the lexicon of words we used as children in play. Canonical cool words. I did everything in my power to preserve this Windows instance so his username remained in existence. Ultimately I wiped the thing.

Now when I see that machine, it’s empty. Bland, dull. A thing that is there. Like a body bereft its soul. So I have this tension surrounding “Magistrate” that persists within me. Into my memories, my thoughts.

I caught a computer virus.

addiction

January 10, 2016
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It’s difficult to say. I want to spell out some great glamourous come-to-jesus that somehow finely captures and delivers the true emotionality of it. I want to be heroic, brave, strong, and brilliant, with some triumphant conviction to know and declare I will get through this.

But I am not yet any of those things, I am an addict.

I have a permanent chemistry that is deeply and markedly different from someone without my affliction. Permanently. I broke it. Or maybe I was already broken. It doesn’t matter because that’s just how it is now.

With or without any substances I am this person, I have been this person, I will be this person.

There is no going back, there is no other way forward, no other way it could have been; only a permanent uphill battle that’s now even more challenging than the insurmountable task it already is for someone “normal” – something I have never been, and never will be.

Everything I’ve read is so disheartening, about timelines and struggles. I’m actually worried that support groups will sooner break my heart than heal it. I will find this out first-hand but this is all so new to me. I think I’m past the worst of it in the short term, the booze and Adderall took a greater toll on my health than since.

But solving the bigger issue now is all the rest of everything.

Which is the same it’s always been, and always will be.

For now, I’m no better off than this fictional entity I’ve been playing the part, or who I wanted to be.

But that person is trapped, and I must leave him behind.

 

“Once a man has changed the relationship between himself and his
environment, he cannot return to the blissful ignorance he left.
Motion, of necessity, involves a change in perspective.” – Commissioner Pravin Lal, “A Social History of Planet”

Winston the Crow

July 24, 2015
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In my building’s courtyard, just over a week ago, I came aware of this constant nagging/cawing, and saw it was coming from a young, downy crow hanging low under a covering all alone.

This happens every year, May to July, when parents nudge their baby out of the nest – though continue to monitor them nearby, and from afar, to teach them how to fly and other life skills.

So I witnessed, from the first day, when Winston – as he has been named – was first shoved from the nest. A bizarre, extremely intimate moment in a living thing’s life.

For the first few days he was severely depressed. Literally sitting motionless with his head poked into a bush, hind sticking out, for hours. And other ways of very obviously moping. Though his parents still stuck around, watching from strategic places, cleverly. Reminding me to fuck off if I got too close unawares.

It becomes a whole thing, Winston, always looking out for him. Or listening – his distinct voice, pouring out a constant stream of consciousness. Despair, curiosity, or snark – all distinct emotions. Funny how some animals are so vocal, to no one in particular, to everyone. Or for people, their constant yabber in all varying ways.

It’s something I look forward to. A little peek at the intimacies of an amazingly familiar being. The opportunity to follow the incredibly human thoughts of a non-human, in his constant chatter. In making eye contact and knowing he’s looking back, unglazed.

He’s rapidly growing up, but for his size still has messy, tufts of a downy belly.

Now he can fly, but that’s a skill to be honed. Not quite to the smooth, subtle, regal poise with which we’re so accustomed, how crows tend to fade in the background.

But now I’m so aware of them, always looking to see if it’s Winston. I notice them everywhere, I can see now they’re always fussing about something real, even if it’s above my head. As I ride by on the bus I see them leering down from power lines, sentinels, every one of them is watching me, specifically, as I go by. Realizing that they actually are.

This morning it’s really quiet on my way in to work. In the silence are only my own private thoughts filling the void.  Which are, incidentally, the same as Winston’s, having been me telling his story all along.

I detour to my spot, even though it rained a bit earlier; but everything’s mostly dry by now. Unfortunately someone left a bag of dog shit right there, which is inevitable given the courtyard doubles as a dog-shitting spot. But there’s enough space in my nook that it shouldn’t interfere.

I get close and I see it’s not what I thought afterall, rather it’s the wet, wilted, downy, lifeless tufts of Winston’s belly who had passed some time, somehow in the night. I had to leave, and his body is soon cleaned up after.

I wish there was more to say, but that’s the end to the story of Winston the Crow.

new post

March 23, 2014
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It’s a strange thing, I haven’t tried writing for a bit of a spell. It’s extraordinarily difficult, this thing.

I have to wonder how it is that people do it on command, and regularly at that. I mean I understand the pull of it, which is why I dabble here and there. It’s sexy, really, this whole thing. First ideas and creativity, made tangible and packaged for delivery. And the presentation, to turn all that solitude and introspection into something that resembles a conversation, incredible.

I haven’t forgotten about this thing, this old blog. It occupies a peculiarly significant space in my identity. I think about it often, the secret part of me that wishes I was something I’ve never become; the writer, creative and insightful.

Sure I lack for drive and discipline; but far beyond than that I feel there’s nothing to say. I’ve been toying with this topic for a while. Yeah I’d love to do this thing, writing. But for every blog/journal I see of someone chronicling their life events, I’m more interested in identifying with their character than I am by their raw content. And, me being subject to the same rules, I find this paralyzing.

I ought to hit Post before I reevaluate my decision and get lost in particulars and possibilities 🙂

Mindfulness and metaphors

April 18, 2013
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I sit behind a couple laptops running windows vista. Across the room on display is our product offering, featuring both current and discontinued devices. A TV commercial silently plays on repeat all day, even though nothing on it is relevant today.

The floor is huge, and bright green, and people bustle by the front doors on their way to other venues in the mall. It’s a huge space, and quiet, though it echoes of greater things past. This used to be a major operation. The back space is twice as big as the floor, including two offices and a half kitchen.

This place has offered me refuge after hours, like when I locked my phone and keys in my car and needed a phone. Or while I was in school I’d come and study late, somewhere quiet and clean. Stuff like that. With all the time spent here, and privacy, it’s homey.

Just me and my castle. Safe, comfortable, alone.

Plenty of time to fuck around and binge on netflix. Sometimes I’ll pace about, or sit and stare into space. Sometimes my eyes are drawn to the looping TV commercial like a moth. That’s how I watch football.

And then a sale here and there, which is fun. The challenge is preserving a certain intensity. The physical act of making the sales is, oddly the easiest part of the job, and also the only reason why they pay me to be here. Though they have announced the pending merger with another company.

So really, one specific metaphor is what I started with, and where I will end: Patterns recur in your life because of the energy you put off into the universe.

I’m alone in this town which is stagnant, and also alone at work, and my company is stagnant. And I’m just comfortable enough to get by, but I am not thriving, and my work is just profitable to survive but faces total collapse.

So I am leaving for Seattle in two days.