Today I learned that while I may be getting too old for the code jockey stuff I still managed to slice and dice a zillion database records into nearly-usable form. Looking at code I wrote 4 years ago is a sometimes painful process in reverse-engineering, trying to remember why I did what I did, and trying to divine where the bodies are buried (to use lingo of project managers interfacing with real programmers).
Some of the code is so bad it’s embarrassing, but hey, it works, none of it is exposed to the public, and no one else needs to see it. I was in such a damn hurry when I wrote the stuff I worked with today, and the haste is abundantly evident, but it’s all good in the end. Or is it? I don’t know. Maybe this is the swansong for me and my ever-dispiriting livelihood. I just don’t dig what I do any more. And you gotta DIG IT, right?
I am tapping these textsplatters into a netbook, sitting at a table in a noisy pub. A framed photograph of mine hangs on the wall above me. It is not my best photo, but it’s the last one left from the wall-to-wall photo show I did here some years ago. I think it’s the only one that did not sell, though to say that the show mostly sold out is not to imply that it was a lucrative endeavor. I pretty well lost my shirt on the deal, and the general discomfort of everything involved in doing it turned me off to seeking more of these type of photo exhibits.
It was strange to come in to this place and see my photos everywhere. Virtually every available inch of wall space was taken by some photo of mine. I
didn’t like it. I felt as if I had stepped into my closet, or a storage crate. And
people were stopping and staring, looking, contemplating my “work” when I barely even considered it work. I never liked it.
On the other hand I had a comparable sense of self-conjoined ennui when I mailed a framed print of one of my photos to a friend. I think it was as a Christmas or birthday gift. Whatever the occasion her reaction confused me. I expected some appreciation and thanks but holy crap it was all the way over the top, over the tippy-top of acceptable expressions of gratitude for the gift of a framed photograph. Tears, orgasmic laughter, and gutteral joy poured down the telephone line.
I guess I shouldn’t complain (and I am not complaining, as much as it might seem so) but it seemed awkward to me.
A year or 2 later this friend moved from her house and her city and her county to take up residence in another one of the 49 available United States of America. After she’d settled in she sent a photo of her new dining room. My photo was hanging on the wall. It felt eerie. My pathetic little attempt at expressing (by capturing in an image) something that could be interpreted as beautiful had furnished a part of a room I’ll never know. The image nervously stared into the space, providing a perpetual mental cadence in the diurnal idle memories of the woman who passed through that room every single day.
I dankly obsess over things like this that allow me to discover and explore new depths of my self-importance. I will never change on this basis, but I have hired myself as a self-spy and on account of that I have become adroit at intercepting the self-wallowing festivus with greater-than-before awareness of this and my numerous other character flaws.
…..
Someone’s cover of Eric Clapton’s “Layla” plays on the jukebox. The bartender talks of a party (with $20 cover) in the neighborhood this weekend. A man at the bar regales a recent stranger with tales of how awesome is a relatively remotely-located pub he knows. I know that pub. It is the place across the street from the great cemetery. I check in once in a while after my necropolis adventures have ended for the day. It is a nice place, at least during the day. My ex-gf liked the place a lot, making it one of the few things I brought into her life that she appreciated.
…..
A friend just walked by outside. He is walking his dog. His dog is a Pit Bull with scars indicating a history in dogfights.
…..
Someone just said “I’m gone. Gone with a D.” Huh?
