ramble, ramble: my ghost like to travel I don't like rambling, but I'm doing Critical Mass for the first time since October so I'm just hanging out here at work until it starts some time after 6:00. I've exhausted my usual web/blog surfing, and I guess there's work I can be getting done, but the next two weeks is plenty of time to get it done. I've been churning stuff out this past week. If I had been working this efficiently for the past year . . . I don't know what. I would have gotten a lot done? Boss-lady came by my cube this afternoon and we chatted for the first time in probably over a year. I don't think we've chatted since Ms. Case Manager got her promotion and the big freeze started. Two weeks left, the final stretch. People are starting to give me knowing looks, envious looks, jealous looks, "You're almost outta here", "Dude, you are SO lucky", "You SUCK!!" Ron refers to me as "short-timer". It's funny thinking of what their perception might be of my leaving and why. That I'm off to something better? That I'm off to Tucson? No, probably not, all they perceive is that I'm outta here, and that's all that's important to everyone here. Very few people still want to be here. As it feels, I'm picking up the eraser for my dry erase board, erasing the processing time information for various government agencies, and then continuing to erase away the dry erase board, the Pokemon and Totoro origami that Joycee made, Tiff's postcard, the Akira Jimbo Yamaha drum ad, my speakers, my CDs, my headphones, big bottle of Advil, lens cleaner, mini Zen garden from Jen, the stone Zenaida gave me, my Wet Ones, my Pinky and the Brain mug, my Sylvester the Cat mug from Josefa, my paper stand, my architect lamp, and the various and sundry junk piled high in pack-ratted drawers, including Ritu's CDs that I got stuck with after she wigged out, and decided I couldn't sell to Amoeba after she died. There's no sentimentality here, it's just a job I'm erasing myself out of. I'll be erasing the floor behind me as I walk out. It will just be white, a blank page or canvas behind me. And if all goes as planned, when I step out of the building and look up and down Sacramento Street as I always do, my entire reality should be different. No plans for the future, nothing there, nothing to strive for, nothing to desire, no pleasure, no infrastructure *burp* ew, Dove dark chocolate I've been eating all afternoon, nothing I can point to behind me that connects to a possible anything in front of me. I'll be done. I should feel finished. Which also is a good indication that this weblog as it is should end then. I started another weblog that is on a trial run and, as predicted, is boring the bejeebus out of me, and that's fine. After this one is abandoned and everything goes there, it should pick up. No dramatics, glib, just plain life as seen from the outside. Ish. Wrap things up, float through, connect with myself. My needs are mine alone. And if anyone here thinks that I'm off to go explore and figure out what I really want to do, and then finds out what I do do and is surprised, let them be confused. I know what I'm doing. And I'm going to do Critical Mass, it's 5:55.

 

January 31, 2003; 7:01 P.M. - Critical Mass paused at Civic Center because a DJ was playing. There's someone holding up their bike in the air in the back. 

Dancing to the street DJ: