On the road again this week, Bellingham, and interesting to find finding waiting in my room a photo of the same route I took to get to Bellingham, only taken 100 years earlier. It provided an odd sort of palindromic sequencing to this scene, especially since I was taking a picture of a picture with a view camera that’s likely very similar to the one used to take photograph I was photographing.
Something of a career hobo, after a few years on a job I start getting pretty twitchy. I start imagining issues where there are none and mistake comfort and security for boredom and dissatisfaction. My latest job has provided some relief from the usual cycles due to a title bump every year or so. I started as a crew member, then crew leader, then project coordinator, then program manager. This sounds much more meteoric than it is- the positions I occupy have a high burnout rate, so I tend to get promoted because no one else wants the job.
I’m not a work snob- I’ll gladly shovel shit if the work day passes quickly, but there comes a point in any job where mystery is exhausted and all that’s left is futility. Bullshit is only superficially more mysterious but why grapple with shit of any kind if it only makes me want life to pass more quickly? I’ve begun to notice an artificial complexity in the program I administer, ironically a falseness that feels real rather than preemptively imagined. Progress is predetermined, penny arcade-ish. Not unlike a weathercock, spinning in every breeze on an anal pivot. The points on the compass can be of infinite division, but a circle is still a circle.
My coveralls get pretty gross at work, but nothing that can’t be cured by a night’s airing under the dogwood/alder/apple. I’d say the dogwood wasn’t staged but few would believe me.
Curious if the dogwood would support my weight as well, should I ever decide to join my coveralls at work.