“What is your life doing?”

I overheard someone ask that question yesterday. Among a group of laughing, giggling high school girls who were all staring at something hilarious on their phones, one shouted “WHAT IS YOUR LIFE DOING?” I believe the spirit of the question was the more typical question of demeaning or sarcastic repute: “What are you doing with your life?” But the question actually asked was more interesting to me. My life is ritualistic and largely revolves around selfish habits. What is working this job doing to me? It is diminishing me. I can never escape feeling that I am rock bottom at this organization with no future for advancement. I expect to get fired. Yesterday one of the login screens did not work. With no sarcasm whatsoever I thought “That’s it. I’m out.” Same thing happened when a meeting appeared on my calendar with no subject and unnamed attendees. That looked like a classic setup for getting whacked. Oher scenarios raised similar assumptions that would have me clearing out my locker under close watch of armed security guards who would whisk me away like a rank bag of rubbish. I don’t even know what’s in my locker, I have not opened or used it in probably a year. I felt it necessary to mention this as I was imagining myself making conversation with those armed security guards, and I needed some excuse in case there was contraband or pornography in there. I used to keep a small bottle of Svedka in there but it’s gone now.

I don’t know what my life is doing to me. Is it doing me, or am I doing it, or is the question spinning on its nub… Annie Dillard once said (I may be paraphrasing) “The way spend our days is, of course, the way we spend our lives.” I keep busy at this meaningless job. I started writing something about payphones a long time ago and feel that time may have come to do something final with it. But research into this stuff is one rabbit hole after another. My life is doing something heavy to me. I still glom on to the same tired, depressive subjects as I did 25 years ago, although I have practically given up playing piano. I played a couple of days ago, the Bach E-Flat Prelude and Fugue from Book II of the WTC. The fugue is an amiable little thing I once played on an enormous church organ. That was a powerful feeling. But wth performing I often ask, why do I need to advance the creations and works of others when I should be creating.

The morning’s subway ride was earlier than usual. When I leave 15 minutes earlier than usual I could possibly get the E train to the World Trade Center. But as I recalled today from the last time I considered that route, for some reason that train is as packed as it can be, and at 5:38 on a Saturday morning. Why? The R train that arrives 2 minutes later is comparitively empty. I always get a seat.

I read this strange account of someone who said she went to a friend’s house expecting a gathering of friends for a weekly get together. She let herself in, as was the norm, and she found that the place looked like an active scene but there were no people there. The microwave was on and food was cooking on the stove, a television was on and there may have been a board game on a table with a game in progress. But no people.

She left and went home, deciding for some reason to return to the other house. This time she let herself in and everybody was there. She asked if everyone had exited th house for some reason but everyone insisted they had been there the whole time.

I’ve had experiences similar to this, where large swaths of time and space are blacked out. Driving to school every day in high school, I would routinely reach Busch Boulevard with no memory of any part of the route that got me there. I suspect I’ve been in rooms where people were invisible to me. I know I’ve been in many rooms where I was invisible to others.