|This little wanderjahr in the wilderness of mind and imagination, was written twenty years ago, when bill was at his last full-time gig as programmer; his employer, a software company (gaming) which dreamed of (hallucinated ?) glory in "business visualization space"— which shall remain nameless.
i had not been there a full year and, if i quit, would not receive the hiring bonus. When the day came for the inevitable lay-offs, i reacted with joy, at first, since i'd get the bonus, and i'd escape what was, for me, not really interesting work in a culture (gung-ho mass gaming) i didn't care about, and, couldn't relate to
Then, i felt regret: the man (also laid off) who got me the job was an old friend, a genius i'd worked with at Adobe inventing what became Acrobat; he had a family, he had bought a house in the area. And, there were people at the company i cared about.
i felt guilty for feeling happy as some of the bright young lay-off-ees around me were crying, or raging.
As often, in this life, i turned to writing to— uhhh— try and distill sense from chaos.
Hope you enjoy the story !
published under the CPOPL (CodeProject Open Poetic License) license, © copyright assigned to CodeProject
coffee on another day of apocalypse
the return of the sun made me feel like i wanted to put on a parade, to welcome an old friend come back wrapped in a flag for heroic deeds in foreign wars.
i would line the streets with children holding the tiny banners of love's small triumphs, waving.
this waking fantasy, i soon enough realized as my first few sips of coffee pulled me up from the depths where my psyche was a temporary master of all realities, was—
but, may i just mention —before proceeding to the inevitable juicy stuff—
there was a nice melodic resonance there at the last rung of the ladder coming out of that turquoise pool of the factory of memories— a hint of Neil Young's immortal chorus "we are stardust, we are golden—"
— yeah, kind of a sixties' thing.
but, there was nothing sixtyish in the strong probability that lay ahead this day: no "band playing in my head"— even though I thought of the image of "living in a burned out basement" so many times, so many ways.
well, if there was a band, it would have been one of those state funeral type brigades of black-hatted shuffling military zombies where one muted trumpet yowls over the slow harmonic swells of tubas and French horns.
because today was the day— now it became all too clear—
— sounds of arctic ice floes breaking up—
that today i would probably be re-assigned, fired, re-orged, turned inside out by an organizational psychodrama that i long had seen coming, and which had very little to do, actually, with this particular bag of dreams and his mid-life cultivated computer chops.
and, as i accepted this, as i dropped the smoking gun of my all too strong ability to spend far too long buying tchotchkes in the visitors' center of the game preserves of endangered metaphors—
i wondered why my coffee tasted so damn good.
«The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled» Plutarch