My first day at work is done. It is work I can do. If they actually train me for emergencies this time. I'm already talented in blind panic, but those are usually not the skill sets you want in a crisis.

Security is a strange thing. Knowing you are there to make a bunch of people in a small quiet building, who are chasing bits of green paper with that desperate modern intensity, feel somehow safer from an image of a terrible world outside the lobby doors. But then, how am I different, doing this job in my own desperate pursuit of enough of those green pieces of paper to make materialize an etheric emotional desire. I don't know. It's that strange feeling that haunted me at my last post, that I'm being paid to do what I've always done. Sitting somewhere and trying to learn a world that isn't my own. It's like being the man who sits in the danceclub and nurses a drink as he watches others dance for hours; unwilling to dance because he doesn't understand the steps and can't follow the music. The one who watches and listens, believing maybe if he could just hear the music, then he'll jump up and dance. Okay, really sophmoric metaphor. But I do dance like Jerry Lewis on bad acid with a rabid wolverine down his overstarched pants, and the only thing most dance music makes me want to move is my bowels. But I can't shake off this wrenching hunger to understand the rhythm of life, when I know inside my deepest self that I can't understand it. I can only feel it.
Synchronicity is hell. The original 1946 version of "The Razor's Edge" is showing on my TV. I really should read the book.

"When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on Earth. So what the hell, leap." - Cynthia Heimel