A status report long in coming is made finally due to coins in a pickle jar. Although the loan check from my father arrived today, that money is sancrosanct lettuce, but I still needed a drink. I took my pickle jar full of spare change gathered for the rainy day fund, ran it through one of those usurious coin machines at the supermarket, and still came out with more than enough to make a journey to the German tavern. I'm working on the pilsner gifted by the waitress who has great sympathy with my jobless plight. I couldn't stay at home anymore, with my thumbs planted rectally, and fret. Note, please, I do have a job now. But the logistics and variable pay of being a door-to-door shuttle driver make the position only comforting as the last fallback. But it is a job, no matter if I'll have to learn a territory that is slightly smaller than Rhode Island to do it. What really drives me to drink is the interminable wait until early next week for the blessed job I really want, the one where I do something that matters. A rare week of staff meetings keeps the hiring manager from making the decision on which of the three applicants get to become a substitute courier delivering blood from a renowned local blood bank to local and regional hospitals. Yes, a job where my work might actually help save a life or two. Its not hard to see why I am am ready to chew my fingers down to the knuckles as I wait for the callback, then take a driving assessment before getting the job. Madness. Madness, I tell you! Of course, it's possible that the wait will cost me the fallback job if I try to delay training for another week, but I have no choice there. The courier job is nearly my obsession now. I do have a secondary fallback option in the making, which is to work for the most rabidly anti-union security company in Seattle, but my everything-but-the-stool-sample application process is on turbulent seas, and aiming for the rocks. And that may not be resolved until next week also. Thusly becoming supplicant to my father as the lengthening wait has utterly wasted my bank account. And thusly again, being driven to drink. And drink more if the Indomitable I and his roommate, the Latin Marx, manage to go out this weekend. Status report complete. In recognition of the outside probability of divine intervention, I've recently begun working my way through the global pantheon of deities, starting with Aten, and hopefully working all the way through to Zeus.

Never a big fan of nostalgia as a lifestyle, I've had to bite my lip recently as I'm hit by the damnable want of a return simpler times in my life, which is only comparable of a Russian for a return to the orderliness of communism. Sure, things were simpler when I was younger, but that was mostly because I was invested with delusional divine psychodrama of the besought and ostracized hyperactive hermit. Life is bound to be easier when you have no momentum to leave your room, except to eat. and that was sporadic. How complicated adulthood must be for someone to reflect wistfully on dissonant childhood. Least I've gained something in the learning of how humans can easily retouch their pasts with a huge sloppy application of barely opaque gloss. Then I do have a natural resistance to nostalgia that is born of knowing that in the Golden Ages so sought by Americans, I'd be lynched or committed. Whichever came first. Ask a black man about the wonderful gentility of the olden days of Southern gentility, and see what answer you get. Okay, I pine retrogressively for a future history that is some utopian egalitarian dream of freedom, but that is countered by knowing that is the past can repeat itself, I could just as likely be put up against a wall and shot for the crime of social deviance. I wish both those temporal factors could center me better on my sense of nowness. But that could positively un-American of me.

Whatever the case, there is a change in the climate of my inner landscape that indicates scattered clouds of doubt with a growing chance of clearing intellectual skies. Not just a gain resultant from seeing any possibility for a rewarding job, but a gain in something I can't easily quantify. I'm taking alot of this on faith, risking belief in a positive result over the pragmatic weighing of an intellectual value-judgement that prepares for dissapointment. I do really believe that this job is mine, and its only a matter of time, and from this I gave the most confident and lucid job interview ever. What I found the most shocking was how little I stuttered during the interview, and didn't fall into my usual hesitancy when faced with tougher questions. This all could be narcisstic patting myself on the back, allowing myself to percieve something that was not, but I doubt it. For once. I really accomplished something, that I am sure to bury in tons of the usual negative deterius, but that I can't abolish or dissolve. I'm still working off that current decision to back off the heavy philosophical interpretation, but its hard to take any of this on face value alone. The truly spookiest thing to think about is what kind of place I could be in when I get this job, and I finally gain, even in a small way, a feeling of the value of physical gains for my work. It's going to be a whirlagig, when I can fall back on the meaningless of my life as some catch-all for my angst.

Feh.

Something good will come of this. It has to. I believe so.