And for an update. It's been 7 months. I suppose there's something to say.
Work is life. I 'd be lying if I said I didn't love it, though. I've never been one who can sit still anyway. Working 60+ hours a week--every week--has it's drawbacks, most certainly, but I'll take it over idleness. I also feel like my job provides me with a sense of purpose to an extent, and that is enjoyable as well. I've been promoted since my last post, which is insane to think about since I was only last "promoted" to management in September. I, with my team, of course, am essentially in charge of all activity in the Pittsburgh market for my company. It really is in every way my dream job. I could stick around in this for a long, long time--fate allowing.
From Buku to Bukowski life has been pretty interesting. I have such little free time that it's always an adventure just deciding how to spend it. Fortunately working in promotions has so many social perks. Last night I found myself at a dub-step show in the South Side in relation to my job. So after the work was done I hung around for the show. The allusive Caleb Pass did not make an appearance, which put a damper on the night, but an unexpected run-in with a delightful acquaintance and making nice with the bar and security staff proved enjoyable, even fulfilling. The headliner, Buku, is also a friend of mine which is reason enough to stick around and show support (or just act remarkably exclusive being "in").
In the downtime, I have found comfort and familiarity with Shiraz, my cat, and Bukowski poetry. For my birthday, Ethan gifted me a collection, Burning in Water Drowning in Flame, which may very well be my favorite work I've been introduced to in many years--pre-graduate school, even. Humor me as I indulge myself. An excerpt:
the other night
an old worker
grey and blind
no longer useful
was retired
to the Outside.
speech! speech!
we demanded.
it was
hell, he said.
we laughed
all 4000 of us;
he had kept his
humor
to the end.
From "the workers."
In life there is much humor and much grief. Purposeful people are those who see the correlation. There is, no doubt, much sorrow that comes with understanding.
I had a dream last night. I had multiple sub-dermal piercings throughout my back, which were being removed by hand in some shop that resembled no place of business of which I've ever been familiar. I bled a little and became nauseated when they removed one from my lower side. It bothered me so much, that the mirroring one I opted to leave in. At this point, a man I knew began to tell a story from the corner of the room about hunting with his friends and his friends' dogs. Appearing from nowhere, as elements are wont to do in dreams, was a caged hound. The man removed the dog from the cage and proceeded to shove the barrel of a rifle into the animal's hindquarters. And fire.
I woke up so disturbed that even though last night's events kept me up past 3am and it was only the early waking moments of dawn, I could not return to rest.
Sometimes I wonder if the poetry is doing it to me. But then I remind myself that it pales in comparison to the cruelty of life.
