Icarus's blog: "Just South of Blue."

I gotta hold it all together.
Just a little longer.
A lot longer.

Things are getting worse. I mean... before they get better.
I have to be fair. Things have been bad before.
Passed out on the floor, no sun for months. Bad.
Guns, broken glass, and post-morphine glee. Bad.

Something tells me I'm aspiring to those days.

My job is changing again.
I'm moving across the hall to be in a room with three other people instead of one.
My least favourite person at work overtook my (and this other lady's) office because she's

well
awful.

So my options were
learn a more complex job, for no raise until August.
Change schedule again, or
spend
EVERY day with my least favourite person at work.

I obviously took the option that dumped the contents of my desk into a box, moving down the hall, and another 2 weeks of probationary training.

The good news is, the job I'm taking is going to look
fabulous
on a resume.

Hell, I can even do it from home if I can get over the hump.

I'm also losing 80% of the panic inducing assignment (the last 20% pending). I'm rather pleased at that fact, especially since my favourite person at the agency, whom I only see on that assignment
is leaving at the end of the month.

Changes babe.

So things are going to be hard.
If things stabilize (which they never have) I come out ahead.
A lot ahead.

I dunno how but the other shoe will land and I'll be doing this job, my six old jobs, and the panic job by June.
I'm sure.

I'm winning out by attrition.
Though without some extra scratch, what I'm winning isn't all that clear, and only 6 people in an agency of hundreds have the salary range I'm gunning for by the end of the year.

Meaning

... meaning...

I'll re-evaluate my options after land, fort, and freedom.

When there's a need, they ask me first.
So either I'm a chump, or go-to. I'll try to assume the best.

Ask again in six months.
Maybe this is that weird, tense, painful moment before everything turns in my favor, and I get what I want
or at least what I'm working for.






















I've been listening to a lot of prog-rock. That whole, pre-punk era of high concept artsy compositional rock.
Procul Harum specifically.

"Barnyard Story".

A lot going on in the imagery of that song, that album, and A Salty Dog.

I sing when I'm sad.






I only dance when I'm happy.








You're not the only thing I think about.


I think about a cabin where there's no lamp-posts, or roads.
Tall grass tickling my wrist, and a run of nearly-wild dogs, and dirt trails to wilder pastures.

These days it's just me, and it doesn't seem to be quite enough.
My head can't quite wrap around a solution to that.

But there's perch on the fire, and a surprising lack of agenda and intent.




I guess that's what this is all for.
A life of weekends, and playing in the dirt.
I'll take what I can to get by.

Tomorrow I move into my new desk, and probably get hammered by a bunch of new shit that is weird, nit-picky, and could kill someone if I fuck it up.

Solution
don't fuck up.

I'm getting pretty good at that.