Done

Today was a good day. It is not finished but it can already be labeled and tossed into the GOOD bin. I was telling a friend recently I might be the least productive person I know, perhaps can even conceive of, if we were to measure such by available time versus accomplishment. I am immensely available yet do not accomplish. 

But not today. Today I accomplished. Part of today was spent reading what I had previously written and, for perhaps the first time appreciated it as beautiful. It resonated with me, perhaps because I was working to rewrite that passage, which, by the way was humming along nicely, and I had the sense to say, Stop. This is good enough, as is. But what to do with what I am making now? Must I throw it away? When will I again make something of which my eye approves? NO, do not throw it away. It is good too. One might stand beside the other, as compliment. They need not compete. Yesterday's favorite earrings shouldn't be discarded because now there is a new necklace. 

Many nights I go to bed thinking of John, what is now known as The Tortoise Races, wondering about this or that, forming light plans for the morning. And many mornings I wake, look at the clock, think, A good day to John. Coffee gets made, ass gets in seat, laptop opened, and after not too long Resolve dissolves as Inspiration fades. On these days I feel like the shoemaker chef: who would I force eat what I know to be substandard? My vegetable garden is abundant & freshly watered, the cuts of beef are all Prime, the poultry can be heard squawking about the courtyard outside the window & the spices imported from the best of locales, won't someone else come inside here and cook up this meal? Or, who is hungry anyway?

No one is coming to cook the fine meal. Truth be told, it is the pleating of a child. Are we not all burdened uniquely? Recently, I was remembering a friend who excelled at crossing off tasks on a checklist. None better, I might argue. We were coworkers for a slice of time, although I was his boss, so I provided the list and he provided the lines through the items. He liked the certainty of it: DONE & who could tell him otherwise. DONE is a nice feeling or, at least, a nice idea. Couldn't it have been done better before being labeled definitely and for eternity? Shouldn't it have been done better or, at least, attempted? Who has the right to say DONE after all? Who, and by what measure?

In the previous example I had the right. I was the arbiter of DONE or not done. My friend's checklist was formed at my behest and affirmed at my pleasure. Yes, done, very nice. Thank you. Now let me tell you what comes next. It should be mentioned that at a prior time my friend was in charge of making lists for others -- that did not go especially well & so he was delivered to me to finish lists rather than begin them. He was very relieved by the exchange, I think. The weight of steering is too heavy for some, let them tug on an oar instead. 

I have not yielded the steering of my project as yet. But I have found a co-pilot, or a relief captain, whatever imperfect title might be affixed. He is appreciative when a list is returned to him with line items struck through. Some items I am uncertain if they are done or undone, Well, they are attempted but damn if I know (If you don't know, who should know, my internal dialogue) & yet he remains unfettered, undeterred, Uh huh, Let's see what else you have, This'll do. Very nice.

Today I worked about three hours straight, first thing in the early morning & I felt immersed, not merely editor looking for errors & missteps, patching & stitching here and there, or wandering about as writer, looking for the story's trail, trying not to kill the little I have made. It is a good feeling & the subtle buzz resonates with me hours later as I type up this recounting. I decided I should document these feelings, or when I have a realization, because recently I had such and I was exited to share it with a friend i was meeting for coffee later. It was an epiphany of sorts and when it came time to recall it, to share it, my mind was blank. 

Sometimes my mind has its own mind & will give me not a thing I look for. A few years ago, a writer friend took great care explaining en media res to me, she even wrote it down on a slip of paper that I not forget, as if I were quite the dolt and this jumping into the middle of things was quite the new thing I needed to learn about. It was a darling thing for her to do, I am not ungrateful, and I kept the scrap of paper for a very long time, testament to a kindness & evidence that sometimes my mind operates on its own frequency & at those times will only give me what it wants to give me and not what I would have, especially if it is a thing I have put there myself. 

Aside: bad poker beat story: the online poker algorithm has been killing me lately. Sometimes I play poorly & losing is what is due. Lately I have been playing very good but my bankroll does not know it or show it. The last hand I played: dealt to me: 99 in 9-handed NLHE MTT; blinds 40/80; sitting on the Button; PRE-FLOP bets: limp, limp, fold, fold, fold, limp, to me: I raise 5x to 400 (too many catchers against a pair of nines); both blinds fold, two limpers CALL. FLOP: 9 A A  rainbow: Hello, Darling! Bets: check, BET 800, I only CALL, first check folds; TURN CARD: 6, no flush draw; BET 1200, I raise to 2400, BET to ALL-IN, I CALL ALL-IN; SHOW CARDS: VILLAIN: A8 off suit; HERO: 99; RIVER CARD: the case A, the especially cruel four-outer. END OF TOURNAMENT & END OF STORY. 

The Universe is instructing where I should have my attention? I don't know: maybe. But it is a happy thought on a good day & maybe it will stay with me through tomorrow. 

James A Ritchie Would Shake the Hell Out of Your Hand

 I had agreed (with myself) to work a full day on Thursday & Friday. Insurance work: a few telephone conversations, exchange some emails, watch multiple video clips, lots of paperwork. 

Midday I got a text that a package had arrived in the lockers for me. The lockers are downstairs in the lobby, so but a short elevator ride for me to take after lunch.  

Inside the cardboard packaging was a paperback book called Tortoise (An Imposition). The cover was the color of a bright eggshell cut with a purple swath through front and back. The pages felt substantive and keen to the touch. The care in design & construction was apparent immediately. The book was magnificent -- the work of a skilled craftsman.

Many years ago I dropped out from my life to write a novel. I moved into a Victorian attic without cable or internet. I took my car off the road. I discovered a character named John and wrote about his world and it's strange periphery & read & walked about. I wrote letters to friends in other places. All in all, it was a fine time.

When my time was up (coffers emptied) I went back to making a living how I know how to make a living: selling insurance. As much as I had loved my year as a writer, afterwards I always felt like a failure -- I had not succeeded in telling John's story & sharing it with the world. I had pages -- some good, some not -- but I had not made a thing to put into the world. 

In the years since, I have snatched a week here, a month there, and revisited John. I've added more chapters, lost some, tried steering him into one shape or another. I've tried to get it right. But I've always failed. It is a debt that I have been unable to pay. 

In the insurance business you sell a policy or you do not. No one cares what you are going to do, or once upon a time did. How much AP did you write this month, this week, today? It's an equitable system. One can look at the board and see where they, and everyone else, (indisputably) stands. 

In the writing business some are more forgiving of a lack of production. Some still consider me a writer even though I have no history of making things to put into the world. These are kind people. Their kindness is appreciated but they do not fool me. In an insurance sales office, a poorly producing agent will typically save everyone involved the discomfort & just move along. No one has to say, "Hey, buddy ..." One day they are not there and everyone knows why and office life continues uninterrupted, undisturbed. It is a good system. 

I have written quite a few poems, a few that are decent enough. But I've no inclination to put them into the world because I am not a poet. I say that without condemnation: some are, some are not. I am not. I have also written quite a few short stories. Some are pretty good -- I would read them had you written them. But I've not a one that feels like it is done. I don't feel that I've gotten the character(s) correct & nailed their story, their essence, what it is all about in their world. There are a couple I would LOVE to share with the world but they are not yet satisfactory. So, no. 

I've started a few novels & some got a decent way along. The story of John mentioned earlier got the furthest, based solely on number of words written & time devoted. Gosh, but I've been at John a long desperate time. I love John & yet he saddens me beyond belief. What does debtor say to the one they owe, long past due? I am like the lousy insurance salesman, mentioned earlier, but one who doesn't have the decency to just quietly move along. I linger over John's story like a ghost: always present but without substance. It is indecent & I have felt the toll.

So today Tortoise arrived in my mailbox. It is the work of a fine editor/publisher named Craig -- my very good friend -- who has cajoled me for years to let him make something out of my repeated failure. I resisted because I KNEW the story was unfinished. It is not done. I know this. But a few months back I sent him files I had and said, "Have at it. I don't have a title (that comes when a thing is finished). I hate the beginning (it is very uneven), Do as you wish." Or some such.

So I spent this afternoon, previously committed to Insurance work, reading what Craig had done with my words. I can not lie, the first few pages are horrid (I have rewritten the 1st chapter a hundred times & it has gotten progressively worse). Slight improvement can be found in chapters 2-3 and eventually the writing gets more cohesive, more confident. At some point after the writing evened out, I started reading it as a book that had just landed in my hands today & not something I'd had a hand in making. And I had a good time. A couple of scenes stirred my emotions -- my apartment is notoriously dusty -- but maybe that was just author me favoring a character I've been acquainted with for so long & feeling their pain or loss more than the story might otherwise implore. Or maybe anyone might feel the same? I don't know. Maybe.

By early evening the novel was finished & I'll admit to feeing quite stirred after I set it down. It wasn't pride that I felt -- seeing a made thing with my name hung on it. No, maybe that will come later (after the repairs have been made). I felt relieved that my debt to John is soon to be repaid. Craig did amazing work taking what I had given to him & understanding what it should be. He took words I'd written in pursuit of one thing -- let's say, The Tale of John Duff -- and repurposed them into pursuit of another thing -- making a worthwhile story to tell & read. 

By the way, Craig named the book. Tortoise, what an odd title! What has this to do with anything? 

It is a perfect title. This title, more than anything, gives permission for the book to stand as payment to John. To explain: if you are familiar with the paradoxes of Zeno of Elea, you know Achilles is destined to chase the tortoise throughout eternity. Between points on the grid there are infinite points in between. Therefore, it is LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE (if we agree to exist in Zeno's paradox) to finish the story of John Duff. There are much too many stops along the way. There are other characters & stories and there is also the thunderous pursuit of the fabled Achilles. We are surrounded by what is happening, what might have happened, what should have happened, what did not happen (yet?) -- so many choices, so much living & potentialities, how does one ignore this for that, when this is fully insistent?

So my friend Craig has given me the greatest gift today. Thank you, friend. Fucking A, the relief. You can not imagine the relief. It is a reprieve I could not conceive of receiving. But here we are.

p.s., What occurred to me while reading (while feeling the implication/relief of the title: "Tortoise"): there is so much room for more. Not to this book: it will be done, after repair. It will be finished. But hopefully it will leave thirst for more of John Duff & the other stories of his world as yet untold?

The Year is Now 2023

 Words again leak from my fingers. Huzzah. I don't curse at them either. 

And a friend has (re) appeared. 

What an odd magical year so far. 

Wabi-sabi

 The year is 2022. Let the damage be known, the broken seen. 

Roxanne

Hi. You sound damaged. Tell me.

Those were the first words she ever wrote to me. We met online. I had posted an ad on Craigslist personals ( M seeking F):

Gentleman Wearies of Prostitutes, Seeks HIs Lady: 

The tone of my ad, while playful, was also combative: I compared the women of CL personals unfavorably to their working sisters. The latter were at least honest. I also ripped the negativity found in most F seeking M ads -- NO this and DON"T BE that. My hope writing the ad was not to "find someone" -- certainly not romantically -- but to maybe solicit a small back and forth with a female who found my observations amusing. Mostly I was bored and trolling. I left the typo in for affect.

Within minutes of posting the first responses arrived: Burn in Hell you fornicating motherfucker; What you need is a good understanding woman; Hey, can you help me find a male hooker; All men suck but you FUCKING SUCK; Here's me naked, send a cock shot and maybe we can hook up; Baby, you won't weary of me, only $200 for a great time and I'll come there if you want;  Hi. You sound damaged. Tell me.

"Hi! You sound damaged. Tell me?" How lovely. Someone bothered to read both the words and beneath the words. Rosie was a soldier, fought in combat and now she was an artist. She plays with  photography and sometimes clay but mostly paints: landscapes and portraits. I'd naively classify what I've seen of her work as ripe -- Life seems constantly in a state of burst.

We wrote back and forth several times that first day. Then she wanted to meet. I resisted and this bothered her. She pestered in a variety of ways: sometimes boldly ("I plan to be downtown Saturday afternoon -- what say?"), others indirectly ("Have you ever prayed naked before an altar of ache and known yourself invisible?") and often casually ("Today?") I insisted: No! This unpleasant tension grew yet the emails kept coming and going, and at an increasing frequency. Most mornings I would turn on my computer to find at least two, sometimes as many as five, emails from her in my queue. We were both so very curious.

Our correspondence now numbers several thousand emails, some of them quite lengthy. I have written War and Peace to Roxanne and received that x two in return. I've come to better understand her insistence on meeting: she fully trusts only what her hands can hold or her eyes can see. Is this her inner soldier or artist being heard? I think she has seared the latter upon the foundation of the former where they now become one thing.

"If you will not meet then send me a picture." No. "Please. Pretty please?" No No No. "Send me one picture and I won't bother you for any more. For ever and ever, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die." No. And then I sent her more words. Now and then she'll write something that triggers me and I'll unleash a flood of words on her. "This, bitch," is a header I used once when she was heavy on my back wanting a pic. I mention the unfortunate header by way of confession, not boast. I'm not proud of it but I know it adds context to our dynamic. We push against each other. It feels very urgent, very now. It is sudden and demanding like love. Rosie is now and I can not turn her off. "Please," she'll plead. "It's killing me. I have to see you. If not your face, send a silhouette. I can make the rest of you from that." No.

Then she'll send more pictures of herself, some quite thrilling. I'll send back another torrent about some random shit, like the epidemic of suicides Goethe set in motion with Werther, or the majesty of the matricide in the Battle of Okinawa. I give her stuff she'll have to look up if she wants to keep up. When she starts pressing hard I put obstacles in her path, like to shoo her away but it's only to slow her down. Yes, it's childish. But Rosie is competitive and will look up any damn thing. She'd learn Latin if I started using it.

There have been times I didn't write her back until the next morning, or even afternoon. This drives her nuts. The time I didn't write for three days she spammed me with a million You There? emails. Fuck, I hated that. She also sent the first picture I never wanted in the first place. A couple of racy ones followed. I kept the pictures but because I hadn't asked for them, settled myself into a firmly superior position. This business happened during the first week while we were still fumbling about with each other. There was a lot of gnashing and bashing because we were two damaged people alone in a place together. That it wasn't a physical place changes not a thing. In fact, the internet may have exacerbated things: creating a false sense one of us could, at any time, be done with the other.

That first week she wrote one time from her cell phone. The message looked awful, like some illiterate's text message, filled with poor punctuation and without capitalization. It also lacked her usual crispness of intention. Zero care had been given to its construction. It was a vile thing and made my heart heavy. I wrote back immediately: NEVER AGAIN. I CAN NOT WILL NOT DO THAT. NOT EVER. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? HOW DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? HOW? WHY?

Rosie had steadily gained sway over me and I hadn't noticed. Merrily merrily, each and every day, back and forth, oblivious me, until boom! Hadn't noticed a thing until she rocked me. So I unplugged from the internet and Roxanne and set about looking for distractions -- the base usual kind many hurting people take their diversion in.

When I came back she was waiting. She explained when leaving the house she doesn't have access to a computer. No more, I said. I can't do it. I can not. Send me nothing. Let the silence grow between us. It is pure, it is honest. "No," she said. "I'll stay home then."

Rosie acquiesced but don't doubt she's a clever girl. While in the midst of making concessions she's simultaneously at work making gains. Not 30 minutes after saying "I'll stay home then," she sent a seven second snippet of an audio clip. Although only a trial balloon it put me at a disadvantage. She was changing the rules, introducing a different element to our relationship dynamic. We hadn't discussed this -- one minute words are being exchanged and the next -- her voice is there, in my room. Her, there: unannounced and uninvited.

Of course I commented on it. Why wouldn't I? Your voice sounds hesitant, I wrote back. Mere seconds later she replied, "Like reaching a hand into a dark corner, or stepping into a strange room?" Yes, that. I was pleased we heard the same thing and I liked the basic imagery she chose. I also admired her trying new things to further our understanding of each other. While I was content with the status quo, she was a soldier, an artist, and had to push further, harder. On the one hand she scared me; on the other I felt immense pride. Had my hard drive contained a picture of me I likely would've sent it. The header: YOU WIN

Five days later she sent a full audio clip. The uncertainty was gone. This Rosie spoke with a brashly feminine cadence that undulated seamlessly, like a magnificent poem or fully correct piece of music. I played the clip over and over, lured by the symphony of her voice. While trying to commit her words to memory I tried speaking along with her but failed every time. Her rising and falling intonations were too dissimilar to my own and, frankly, embarrassingly superior. And then listening to her linger over the letters of my name -- it seemed a full breath on each -- it felt I'd burst.

Talk about an insanely quick thinker -- yesterday Rosie sent me a 168 word response, with several questions thoughtfully answered, thirteen minutes after I had hit SEND. This is more the norm than an outlier. If I bothered to track reply times, her's would be 30% or 40% of mine, maybe less.

She's also insanely troubled. Once she put a loaded snub nose Smith and Wesson to her bare chest and pulled the trigger. I had no hand in that; this was before our time. I'd guess it was in response to her military service, but I've not yet gotten up the nerve to ask her. She's not bashful about telling me things so I expect eventually she'll get around to revealing how she came to almost murder herself. What's obvious: she hurts. She's possibly psychotic, but I don't know. She hurts deeply. I've done research into some other things she's told me but it's not my place to put her business all out there. And certainly not before she's met me or even seen a picture.

I think she'd laugh at me labeling her possibly psychotic. She intensely dislikes labels, but mostly because they are poorly constructed and so patently false. "If you insist on putting me into a box I will agree only to be the air, not the thing. If this will make you feel safer, darling." Yeah, lately she's taken to "darling." It made me uncomfortable. But now I've seen it so many times it's grown on me. I already know the hurt I'll feel when she stops using it. It's another debt I gladly take on now.

The M word got dropped recently, which is the main reason I'm writing about her. Well, that, and the baby fixation mentioned at the beginning. I don't mind the idea of it as much as I once thought. I'd have to send her a picture first. We'd have to meet eventually. Whoa, slow down, I'm not ready, the instant thought. But then I sit with it for a minute, think about her, the possibilities. "Darling," she says, and I picture her full radiance. Why couldn't the E be an extended one? A year or two, several years -- that's not so far from the norm, is it? There's no rule says you have to rush into a thing without first fully preparing.

I think I have a fiance.

Team James Introduces: Mary Elizabeth

Many months back Team James advertised for a Choreographer (of love dances). The ad generated hundreds of applicants, a few who were qualified for the position.  Several candidates were interviewed and one ultimately was hired. 

By design, and for obvious reasons, I was only peripherally involved in this hire. I did read the resumes but beyond that had no further contact until a candidate was chosen. And the contact at that point was only at the insistence of the chosen candidate -- in essence, I was interviewed. This process was agreeable to me and, ultimately, proved successful. The Choreographer was, and remains, a wonderful addition to Team James. 

But another candidate from that pool, who's resume didn't even generate an interview, has remained in my consciousness. I was struck by its sheer honesty which included a precise cataloging of both successes and failures. For example: "Fiscal year 2012 was marked by an actual increase in sales revenues of 1.44 M (3.21%), well below the expected revenue increase of 2.47 M (5.5%). My year's-end assessment revealed my performance as the largest contributing factor; therefore, I tendered a resignation, which was accepted."

It occurred to me this resume might be a fully meticulous listing of huey designed to throw off the reader via proliferation of "candid" detail. A few "smears" added to affect the whole,  creating a ripe thing, a breathing thing, thus, a desirable thing. Yes, I had those thoughts because that was the affect I felt. Had that been the intent, it worked. But while my brain was on high alert my gut told me I was holding in my possession the one truly honest accounting of a person's work life I might ever encounter. 

Rather than delegating to the team, I personally set out to verify each and every claim on the resume with the understanding should any claim prove false, the candidate would no longer hold allure and the game would be up. I spent many hours on the telephone working around "gatekeepers" to get at the executives that could either verify or refute. Many were insistent at tossing me off to HR, but I am a skilled salesman and mostly found their efforts feeble and unimaginative and, ultimately, ineffective.

But try as I might, some I couldn't raise on the telephone. More than one executive was subsequently displeased to find me unannounced and settled into an outer-office chair with my newly arrived treasure, Manual of Painting and Calligraphy, and a very tall cup of coffee. Take your time, pally. 
Now I didn't get to all of them and, shameful as it is to admit, a few beat me at my game. But I got to enough to affirm my gut. The results of her background check were stunning -- her previous employers found her exceptional and were truly saddened she was no longer in their employ. 

Once satisfied she was the perfect candidate, I had her in for an interview. Confession: hearing her voice the first time on the telephone produced an awkward sort of deja vu -- her voice matched exactly how I had been anticipating (relentlessly) she would look: thin trim tin. And subsequently, her physical appearance one hundred per cent matched her voice and resume. She fit exactly in all ways, which makes her a perfect find: it's like a thing lost or stolen has now been returned. The bible says Rejoice! and I did. What was never is now.  

So it's official: a bean counter has been added. The expectation is for Team James to "tighten the belt" in several areas, reinvigorating dormant revenue streams while seeking/developing other at-present unidentified opportunities. Because this exceptional lady prefers no notoriety (making her quite the novelty around these parts) and was borderline insistent about her privacy, we will limit future disclosures. In fact, she might never receive mention again. But know she is here, behind the scenes, counting and cataloging, encouraging and reprimanding, exhorting, while steering Team James towards ... continued existence.

Team James Announces:

Announcement: 

Team James is pleased to announce a relocation of offices. If one might have classified the previous locale as "austere," then similarly the new headquarters might be labeled "luxurious." 

All staff members polled voted in favor of the change. In fact, one member was caught voting in the affirmative twice. That dishonest member was, regrettably, not disciplined. James labeled the transgression "enthusiastic," and demanded to "hear no more about it." Thus the matter was closed.

James will provide additional detail at a future date; presently he composes a related announcement.