Necessity is the mother...

 ... of invention. Right?

I've long thought of it as the mother of creativity. Sometimes, at least.

I'm all about creativity. To me there's no other point to life or to being human. But being creative doesn't mean that your imagination produces things out of nowhere. A mind does not just come up with random material. It thinks up things for reasons whether you can follow the causality or not.

Many times I know I need to add elements to a story but my mind is blank. What to add? Nothing occurs to me. But there's a very useful engine for creative imagining and its when there is a problem to solve.

I needed to work on a novel a decade or so ago and did not have a concept in the bag. I did have many short story ideas clamouring for attention though. So I picked three compelling ones; three simple premises I had previously come up with and listed them on the page. Three ideas. And then I said "How to bring these together into one novel?" I logically worked at the problem and what was born was probably my most excellent novel outline I have ever managed: The Transneptunians was the working title. That word, by the way, refers to any astronomical member of this star system which exists beyond the orbit of Neptune. 

I have never finished the first draft because it is still lacking a thing or two. It was about the lives and relationships of a father and daughter who never knew each other beyond the girl's toddlerhood. Every other chapter revealed the father's life from his own childhood until the defining life-changing event in his prime adulthood. And every other chapter revealed his life in reverse, from death, backwards in time, as learned by the daughter who researched his life by seeking those who knew him, as she was compelled to understand what appeared to be a tragic life after learning her biological father had died. At the end of the book the two timelines meet and the truth is revealed. The title comes from a cosmic idea concerning the process of his death, but also concerns the relationship; father and daughter whose lives revolve around each other without them meeting, like Pluto and Charon, once considered planet and moon, which revolve around each other without ever touching.

The first youth writing club I facilitated in my school volunteer days; they wanted to co-write a novel; the most ambitious option I presented to them. I had them each create their own character and their own simple story about their own character, so they could each be writing separately at home on their own early chapters of the book. My promise to them was that once we had each character on the move; their problems and pursuits rolling along, we would then figure out how to bring them all together; how to get every character into the same space in a situation; an event; that would bring about their defining moments; the climax of the novel.

Two problems: 1. They were not working fast enough as the school year swiftly ran dry. And 2. They didn't trust my promise that their seemingly unrelated stories could possible come together. And this eroded their enthusiasm without my knowledge. By the time I realized what was going on it was getting too late. I knew with certainty that we would have been able to bring it all together. And the seemingly unbridgeable distance we'd have needed to close; the apparent stretch of it, was exactly the reason I knew it could be done and be excellent. The great necessity would have been the mother of great creativity. It's too bad perhaps, that I was not more determined and didn't push harder, and didn't find a way to show them and convince them.

As I work daily on getting my new business to the launch state, I will be leaning heavily on the concept. Have I mentioned I'm going into the Dungeons & Dragons hosting business? There is a boom in D&D playing and a shortage of dungeon masters which has spawned a nascent industry: DMing for cash. I'm working on a whole new set of rulebooks; a best-practices formula which considers all previous versions of D&D resources and my own innovations; a very considerable collection of improvements. My goals are big and doable: the ultimate D&D experiences for my clients. Fun, challenging, compelling. Campaigns that are fully immersive; not glorified obstacle courses. Not a formula for player characters to fit into my story, but a fully prepared 360-degree world with possible adventures, resources, allies, opportunities and clues in every direction, where players determine their own objectives and are the prime movers in an evolving story which I discover at the same time they do. It demands a ton of preparation but I am very well-positioned for that. I've been collecting ideas and story concepts and creative elements for a long time. I have over 4000 names in my personal fantasy-themed name collection for instance.

Now, anyone could make the same claim by simply subscribing to an online resource. But it's not the same. Mine are all gold. Mine were all created or acquired within the context of my worlds. They all work. They all will resonate and not seem random. This is one example of a great many that are going to make my product fucking kick-ass.

And whatever gaps in my resources come to apparency through this evolving process: they will be created marvelously... out of necessity.

Back to work... 

Nugget of Wisdom #707

According to Make It magazine; a product of "world leading" news channel CNBC, Harvard researchers report that, "Hi. How are you?" is the worst thing you can say when greeting an associate. They advise that this is too vague and not likely to generate an authentic connection.

Hard to argue that, I say. But what if it's an associate we don't exactly crave an authentic connection with? Maybe it's perfect?

Three superior options, claims Make It:

• “Hi. What are you looking forward to this week?”
• “Hi. You remind me of a celebrity, but I can’t remember which one — who’s someone you relate to?”
• "Hi. What are your three favorite colors?"

Um. Yeah.

Confession: Only two of those were recommended in the article and one of them is my own throw-in. Though I can't imagine using any of them. Also, I find it a bit odd that they issue their number one piece of advice; "be authentic," right before providing canned dialogue.

Oh and here's their actual third suggestion. Ready?

• "Hi. What's your current state of mind?"

Can you imagine?

Pretty sure my response to that would be, "Suddenly cringed the fuck out, actually. Will you excuse me?"

The preceding nugget may or may not contain authentic wisdom. Either way it is not endorsed by the army of monkeys known as Fantasy Writer Guy. 

De-Commissioned

Well it's been a season for correspondence over at Crazy Commissionaires Security Corps.

Just before Christmas I received an interesting and unexpected package. Contained in a rather substantial folder emblazoned with a House of Commons emblem (Canadian parliament) were a pair of government certificates signed by real life-federal politicians thanking me for twelve years of service with Commissionaires. Also present were two military type medals which one would wear on one's uniform, I presume only at special events or on special occasions.

I was impressed and touched. I felt
grateful and proud to be a Commissionaire. Of course it's all a bit dodgy as I'm sure this is an honour intended for the military veterans for whom the company was originally built to serve. I am not a veteran but have had the privilege to work for them because their client requirements exceed the availability of veteran employees. So I'm aware that the 12-year service fuss, in my case, is an indulgent courtesy. I'll take it though. I'm generally proud of the work we did. They're an excellent vendor and employer.

Then, at Christmas I received a signed holiday greeting card from them.

Two weeks later they sent me a signed birthday card.

And two days after that I received...

My letter of termination!

LOL (yes I really laughed out loud just now).

I'd long known about short-term disability and long-term disability but I didn't realize there was one more designation after that which I presume is called you're dead to us now disability.

Oh well! It's true I am currently unemployable in the security field. I'm just disappointed that after all we've been through that they had to treat me like a total stranger in the tone of the communication. But I presume that all has to do with legal liability strategies and such. Even when there are no lawyers in the room, in this society, there is always a motherfucking lawyer in the room! 

But I don't care. I still choose to live as though there is not, to the endless worry of my associates who have collectively predicted a hundred and one versions of my legal demise. They don't know how to do the accounting when it comes to forms of freedom they have never experienced. Even on the very few occasions they're been right they've been wrong.

Well, I wasn't expecting that tangent!

I think it's likely that security will regain a role in my income formula post-recovery, along with a couple other things which I should soon mention. I'm hopeful Commissionaires might re-hire me if I can fully recover.

For now I'm just happy to be here!

Cheers!

No leavesies!

Halden is a 75 acre complex consisting of many buildings. It opened in 2010 and received the Arnstein Arneberg Award for its interior design. It facilitates around 250 guests.

Each 110 square foot living unit contains a private bathroom, TV, desk, mini-fridge and a tall window for plenty of natural light.

There are more than a dozen common areas each with fully-equipped kitchen, dining area, couches and a video game system.

The site also offers such amenities as sports and gym facilities, jogging trails, a library (books, films and music), chapel, English lessons and other education programs, counselling and even a music studio with broadcast functions.

There is also a fully-featured chalet guesthouse where a tenant can entertain their entire family for a 24-hour visit.

Staff areas are small and spartan because staff spend most of their time forming a community with the residents. It’s like a small village with a balanced focus on living, working and recreation.

Hmm... Are you wondering if this might be… the world’s most liberal prison or something! Well, I assure you there are no weapons here. No watchtowers, barbed wire or electric fences, and the only surveillance cameras are outdoors.

There is however a very big wall around the place and guests are confined to their rooms at certain hours.

Yes, it is a prison, widely considered the most liberal. It’s in Norway, and it houses inmates of the most serious and dangerous kind as well as a bevy of drug offenders. And yes Norway is in Scandinavia, that magical land where they are always decades ahead of the rest of the messed-up world in terms of social intelligence.

I was first exposed to Halden Prison in a Michael Moore film. It has the feel of a Canadian half-way house (I have visited such places in volunteer roles), as if the convicted have skipped prison and gone straight to a parole circumstance but without unescorted leave privileges. Halden Prison shocks a lot of people because a lot of people really have little clue how to think critically, quite frankly. Some people assume that they are somehow innately superior to convicted criminals as opposed to privileged benefactors of advantageous environment, circumstance and/or mental health. And some people assume that criminals deserve all the punishment they can get without realizing quite how bad they actually have it or how badly it aggravates and harms society when we bend more toward revenge as opposed to rehabilitation. The revenge model, rarely so determinedly celebrated than in the United states of America where incarceration has become a self-propelling Big Fucking Profitable Business, creates such a chasm between the convicted and the non-convicted and such barriers to re-normalization, that the so-called “released” have almost no choice but to seek the aid of their criminal associates whom the justice system has so eagerly afforded them, thus increasing crime rates.

But my god, how dreary I am of explaining this shit. I once worked in a Community Corrections Centre (a step between prison and half-way houses) and I can absolutely assure you that a slight majority of guards at this particular shit-hole were far more despicable human scum than most of the tenants. I would sometimes stare at certain coworkers in awe thinking I can’t believe you’re on this side of the glass.

To be fair there were some most-excellent human beings among the guards as well, and they have remained good friends.

The last time I checked: In a list of 223 nations Canada ranked around 85th best in terms of incarceration rate at around .107%. That’s about 32,000 inmates. Nothing to celebrate.

At all.

I think the nation of Liechtenstein had two at the time. Two whole inmates! I mean, it’s a tiny nation, sure. But two! Perhaps they’re simply the nicest people ever or maybe all their convicts are quietly murdered after a couple nights. I don’t know.

India was ranked about 12th best with around .03%

Norway, you ask? Around 30th best at .06%

The USA ranks a distant dead last with a staggering .655% or more than two million inmates. I’m pretty sure they are going about things the Wrongest Way Possible.

I saw how badly the Community Corrections Centre residents were treated in subtle terms; the environment, the policies, the vampiric management style (not so much the way they were spoken to in normal moments necessarily) and I started to understand how challenging it was for convicts to embrace rehabilitation efforts with sincerity. I could see how easy it would be to fall back on the criminal community for support; the community which gave them more respect quite frankly. The community which was pushed together by society’s determination to marginalize them. When I saw this I knew I had to volunteer. I knew how much better our helping hands had to be, than the alternative, in order to win them over to our side, and to the long hard road to attain a normalized life again despite all the barriers, many of them permanent.

A co-volunteer (and self-starting organizer) in this community, who once started out a brief inmate himself for frankly preposterous reasons, is one of my favourite people ever. I call him the Noble Punster. His life is now deeply dedicated to helping ex-convicts reach their potential in every way possible including spiritually, where applicable.

I had hardly known him on the occasion he asked me what I needed in order to get out of the very difficult circumstances life had squeezed me into at the time.

“Honestly,” I said. “I need seven hundred dollars for car repairs. I don’t know where I can get it.”

He wrote me the cheque on the spot, and was eternally gracious while it took me a year and a half to pay it off.

And today, for N day he requested:

Norwegian prisons

Introducing: The Adventures of Meth Lab Mike

Chapter One: The Final Adventure!

This concludes the adventures of Meth Lab Mike.

I fucking hope.

T is for Thigh

In the last couple months there have been a few brief occasions where my right thigh goes on vacation. It just seems to disengage; almost like a partially separated shoulder but really not very painful at all. It usually happens right after standing up and if I’ve already walked a stride or two it threatens to make me fall down. So far I have been lucky and had things to grab on to.

A few days ago I had several attacks the same day and they each lasted for ten to twenty minutes.

And then… Friday night on the night shift: It went on me again, this time lasting for six and a half hours. I could not leave my chair in that time. Had I needed the washroom I’d have had to roll there on my wheeled desk chair.

After five hours of this I sent an email to my bosses and the director of operations and the H.R. manager. I told them that it looked like the end of the road for me with this client. It has been a couple month since declining mobility hasn’t made my work weekends an awkward and sometimes painful ordeal.

Maybe they can offer me a different less-mobile assignment, once my leg problem is resolved. I think it may be a nerve damage or pinched nerve issue.

I’m aware I might end up on disability. I do not want this, of course, but my seven day shifts per month at the social assistance office, through new employer Poseidon Security, does not yield enough income to get by on.

Big changes may be coming. 

J is for Jackass

So Daphne… we’ll call her Daphne. She works with me and is by far the most gregarious of the staff here, and typical of any “class clown” type in an office environment, she targets me as someone to have fun with. And we do. The jokes fly back and forth on a daily basis.

Over this last year and a half it does dawn on me that she probably does not have similar views as me, politically for instance, but I don’t let that concern me. She’s my client and thus I must be respectful, and on top of that, many people in my life wouldn’t score well on my personal subjective personality test - but so what? We’re all human and all have flaws. Mine are different than other peoples. No reason we can’t make the best of things together.

But yesterday there was a large immigrant family in the waiting room where I am situated (by the main entrance). So Daphne comes through on her way to lunch (and probably a quick trip to the liquor store nearby) and as she passes she flashes me her cell phone and says, “What do you think of this? You get it, right?”

On her phone is the image of the Canadian flag but it has been altered to contain the words: FIT IN or FUCK OFF.

Very disappointing.

I look her in the eye without expression and shrug my shoulders.

“You get it,” she says. “I know you do.”

“It doesn’t resonate with me,” I say. She smirks and departs.

I don’t know if she knows what resonate means. I’m realizing that she might be an even duller tool in the shed than I’d assumed.

It’s rather sad how many cowering racists see me and imagine I must be a safe audience to reach out to for… kinship.

But it only ever happens when I’m in uniform. I must look vaguely military or something, and thus a real Canadian. In fact I had just had my hair cut quite short before this happened.

Fit in… or Fuck off…

I wish the instructions had been clearer. Fit in to what? Our culture? We have many cultures here. My own is nothing like Daphne’s. I presume she means her culture and not mine.

So what she’s saying is… Either get a job you hate and watch the clock all day and then rush home and get drunk every night and raise a kid to be a dull and lazy non-contributor in regular trouble with the police - and oh yeah - be a non-creative unthinking pea-brained racist… or else… I will insist that you must “fuck off” using an anonymous rudimentary internet picture-page that Uncle Jesse crafted between reality show binges.  

What must I do to ward off these morbid unwelcome advances? An “I’m a security guard, not a moron” sign would surely be ineffective not to mention unsavory from the client’s perspective.

You know - some guards wear their little military pins and medals on their breast pocket. Maybe I should get some pins and wear them. Pins that represent diversity? Like multiple religious icons, a rainbow… It’s a thought.

Dispatches from the Social Assistance Office

Senior Lady: "Are you playing with your gizmo there?"

Security Guard: "My computer? I’m working on a project."

Senior Lady: "Oh, well have a nice day. Bye!"

Customer Service Rep: "Did she just ask you if you were playing with your-?"

Security Guard: "Let’s not talk about it."

Young Lady: "Hi handsome! How are you?"

Security Guard: "Not bad thanks. Don’t forget to ask for extra money for new glasses."

Dispatches from the Social Assistance Office

Red-faced old man (barking directly through the people he’s talking about): “That’s pretty rude of them speaking another language right in front of us! They can understand us but we can’t understand them! Who knows what they’re saying about us!”

Younger man across the way: “Doesn’t bother me any.”

Red-faced old man: They don’t give a shit about us!

So sadly, this is the second time such an episode occurred here. I have now sought clarification and learned that it is my place to inform such complainants of this inclusive government institution’s policy on language and also on the matter of bullying and how to go about not getting escorted off the property - in my firm and friendly, persuasive happy way...

I don’t look forward to this likely occurrence but I certainly won’t hesitate to act.

Dispatches from the Social Assistance Office

Mom:  Stop fighting. We love each other in this family.

First Kid:  No we don’t.

Mom:  Yes we do. We love each other.

Second Kid:  No we don’t.

------------------------------

Mature Woman:  I’m supposed to meet my grandson here but I don’t see him.

Me:  Can you describe him for me?

Mature Woman:  Yes. He’s young and thinks he knows everything.

Zack and Noah

It was nearly four in the morning when young electrician’s apprentice ‘Zack’ barked at young security guard escort ‘Noah’, “Are you done yet!” Meaning in essence: Are you done conversing with the old fat guy so you can take me where I need to go! I need you now!

“Hey I won't be spoken to like that!” roared the skinny runt, practically swimming in his billowy blue uniform. He then went off with Zack at once on their errand but reaming him out all the while about respect and how he was going to immediately launch an official complaint.

A short time later Noah was still simmering and Zack was petulant and ‘Vanessa’ the Very Young Head Contractor Coordinator Lady was practically drooling at the opportunity to put her nascent management training to some facsimile of use: “Noah, do you want me to write him up! Do you!”

“Noah, slow down,” I said calmly. Someone needed to stay calm.

“You need to stay out of it,” gurgled the little boss girl at me.

I gave her worldly advice a more-than-warranted half-second of consideration and said, “Noah, don’t react out of emotion. Take some time to cool down before you make this decision.” We’d only just met that night but he was my co-worker officially; not theirs, and we’d just had a long discussion about his managing his new peers in his first year of University and the problems with their political clash. He seemed to have developed swift trust in me and in this moment he deflated.

As the end-of-shift clean-up neared completion Vanessa suddenly said, “Oh no! Are Zack and Noah alone together in the mechanical room? They are, aren’t they!”

Sometimes I have a good idea when my advice will not be heeded and so I refrain. I have  become good at that. I did not say aloud that this was exactly what we wanted.

They are young and full of ego and backing down from their stances is next to impossible in a crowd of witnesses. I think you know where I’m going with this: Once alone together they would of course become embarrassed and thus conciliatory.

No paperwork was done, and the boys were quickly friends again.

The Ark

Fifty-four years ago a Frenchman named Vanier turned heads pulling two developmentally challenged adults out of a standard institution and bringing them to live with him in a small house. There they improved their lives, demonstrated their worth, and grew the community they called the Ark, building a workshop and art studio along the way.

Today there are Ark communities in forty countries including two hundred - significantly larger - homes in Canada; some forming the Scooterville chapter, where core members live under the same roof as the staff who are dedicated to helping them live productive lives.

To me, this represents harmony; the most laudable goal of humanity.

“Would you ever consider returning to the traditional workforce if the employer had goals compatible with your own?” World Citizen asked me a couple years ago.

“Of course,” I said, “If I were convinced it were true.”

Days ago I applied for a temporary part-time Admin Assistant position - not at an Ark home but at the Scooterville community office: two days a week for a year or so; a perfect arrangement to commit to in order to test a possibly integral component of my life-goals/income solution.

And given I am well-acquainted with the Scooterville community director - we volunteer together at Circles - I figured myself a shoo-in for an interview at least. I thus went light on the successes portion of the resume, preferring all that to come from my own mouth, and concentrated on a list of forty significant and relevant job skills which just about runs the gamut of the admin environment, and a bold, perfectly truthful mission statement:

To help manifest harmony wherever possible, through ongoing self-directed and charitable projects and if applicable: by working within a like-motivated organization.

I was surprised when they declined an interview, citing “many qualified applicants” and stating that “…sadly we will not be continuing at this time with your application…”

Well darn. I didn’t intend to make anyone sad! I’m certainly not. My goal was to help the Ark land the best new member for their team; myself if applicable. I did not want the job for myself regardless. There is no harmony in that. I just hope they haven’t made a mistake, passing me up prematurely.

I responded that I was actually happy that they had garnered excellent candidates (my word, not theirs, but the logical assumption).

At circles events I appropriately dress down in order to fit in with the membership and I do not go out of my way to shave. Does the director assume I would not groom appropriately for an office gig? Am I not the traditional shape or gender for such a role? I would assume a more forward thinking mindset here.

Was my objective perceived contrived? I am aware that my truthful circumstances are very unlikely. But the director has glimpsed many insights into my past when I’ve spoke at functions. Though I also wonder if she had nothing to do with my resume’s appraisal and too if our connection was not even known by the appraisers.

As I release more resumes must I dumb myself down a bit and produce something more normal?

The big man

He leaned down, his face too close to mine and hissed, “I don’t like people who play head games.” It seemed like a threat.

I’d never worked with this burly, awkward security guard before. He paced a lot. He would stand, slightly hunched, staring ahead, his jaw working and working at some invisible prey.

I finally summoned the courage to ask him how he was doing, regretting it before the words were fully out of my mouth. The answer was a long growling litany of not good. It seemed like this ogre perceived that everyone was against him. I started to wonder how anything I said would not be perceived as a head game by someone so apparently paranoid. The entire night was unpleasant, seeming rife with jeopardy.

The next day I received an emergency email from the dispatcher: Could I please return for another shift that night?

And possibly stave off starvation and financial ruin a tad longer? Why of course!

She then confirmed the shift, and oddly, as this was not general practice, she mentioned who I would be working with: the ogre again.

Starvation suddenly seemed preferable.

I am not remotely comfortable ratting out employees to employers. It is a serious privilege to affect someone’s capacity for income. This needed much though but I had no time. So I quickly sent this email:

[Dispatcher]:

I realize that likely nothing can be done immediately and I am obligated to work tonight with [Big man], but I need you to know that I am dreading this, and going forward I will probably have to refuse to work with him. I believe the fellow has significant mental problems which I am not sure how to deal with. He is full of anger which so far has been limited to verbal venting and creepy behaviour which feels threatening to me. There has been no sign of physical violence whatsoever but nevertheless I am extremely uncomfortable around him. 

I'm very sorry to throw this at you and I am regretful I didn't speak up earlier but it's tricky to know the right thing to do. I don't wish to damage this man's career but I am also concerned about my own safety and well-being.

I am copying Mr. [H. R. Guy] as I am unsure who should best receive this concern.

Sincerely,

By the next morning I had worked another shift with the fellow and discovered the potential tyranny in first impressions. I started to perceive that the “threat” I had endured was nothing more than one man, low on companions, whispering; confiding in a potential one. At the risk of looking like a bit of an idiot, I was obliged to contact my supports at the office again:

[Big man] and I were often together last night and I must confess I had no problems with him. In fact I would say that he was very polite and helpful. Though I still feel nervous around him currently, I would consider that perhaps this is something that is my responsibility to deal with, personally, as a matter of respecting diversity.

I would like to assume that on the previous shift where I met him for the first time, that he was just having an unusually bad day and that perhaps I interpreted things in the most unfortunate way. First impressions can be tricky. I regret my previous communication. Last night’s assignment was very short-notice and I felt cornered and rushed to choose a course of action.

I'm aware that [Big man] has some struggles currently but I'm now inclined toward empathy and I hope not to see his employment opportunities diminished. From what I saw last night I believe he conducted himself admirably and kept his problems to himself. I must also confess that given his superior mobility, he was the greater resource last night; especially toward the end.

Sincerely,

Long day huh?

… No; it’s a great day, was my response. At that moment I was writing in a notebook while keeping half an eye on the small handful of well-mannered folks at the reception counter of the social assistance office. From my desk near the public entrance I convey the image of kind authority, give directions to the occasional lost-looking soul who I know right away is actually looking for either the Service Canada office next door or the Service Ontario office around the corner, and respond to a daily well-meaning buffoon who is concerned that I must be bored, all while getting lots of valuable observation, contemplation and creative work accomplished.

“Boring job, eh!” said yesterday’s Joe Blow.

When I worked at the community corrections centre, visitors would take one look at my Zombie Partner du Jour and make that same comment: “Boring job, eh?”. Sometimes said partner would crack an eye and assure them of the brilliance of their observation. But if left to me I would boldly reply: “I’m not personally aware of any boring jobs; only boring people!”

I was well aware that I was insulting the person-like shape reclined beside me but there are times when honesty is going to happen; like it or not. Sorry about your luck, Loafy McLoafenheimer.

I use the laptop sparingly at the social assistance office as It might provoke an assumption that I am zoned out, lost in some game or movie perhaps. In the five days (of seven per month) I have attended so far, I have scribbled In my notebooks ideas and material for such projects as this blog, the novel Crazy Legs (character outlines - there are many many characters…), my board games Prestige, Quantify and currently untitled movie script game, stand-up comedy material, resume and cover letter, Dungeons & Dragons “Minerva” setup and of much current importance: the mapping and orienting of ideas/understandings around a deep “poetic” mentoring commitment.

I can’t remember what it was like prior to this daily habit of observation, reflection, contemplation and creativity. I find it difficult now to relate to the people who make these comments to me, who I must assume live their lives dedicated to the bidding of their human masters and to their stone-age instincts, with occasional distraction/escape and nothing more, with no realization that all of their reality lies behind a veneer of falsehoods which are threatening to go undetected.

When they say, “Boring job, hey?” what I hear is: “Hi! I’ve never figured anything out!”

I am very grateful for my circumstance. Of course I must be thankful for the privilege. I would have a very hard time raising a family within the financial confines of this lifestyle. Luckily for me I live in a time when the world is lethally overpopulated and no such expectation is made of me. Had I lived during mankind’s most dire of ages, when we were barely a thousand people away from extinction, this all might have been difficult!

But as always throughout history, there is room in everyone’s life for some greater degree of mindfulness; more discovery; more growth of the mind; more wisdom, especially in this most unnatural Age of Misinformation, if one can make do with a little less screen time perhaps?

Sitting in the dark

“Do you sit in the dark all day?”

One of the painters asks me this. The crews and I have been here for a week but this fellow is new today and is not familiar with my routine and probably thinks I work here full time because I’m an apparent guard and I’m in an apparent guard station which is lined with camera monitors (turned off) and thick one-way mirrored glass.

I’ve been escorting the crews which do upgrades to the jail cells which surround this station and which link to the court rooms. It is normally police and special constables who work in this station but we’re only here evenings and weekends when no prisoners are here and no judge would be caught dead at work.

I have no court-related work to do. I’m sitting at a workstation doing stuff on my laptop: end-of-novel-month community stuff, some first-draft work on the novel, drafting emails for later copy-pasting when I’m online again, some movie reviews, a gofundme enterprise through which I propose to blow up planet Earth, and… this blog post.

The bright lights of the hallways and my adjacent bathroom are on and lend themselves through both wide-open doors. More importantly, all my work is done on the lap top and the screen provides exactly the right amount of light for that.

The first evening here the boss painter said the same thing. “Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“I’ve got all the light I need. I can see everything I need to see.”

“Oh, so it’s a conservation thing,” he says confidently.

“No, I just don’t like unnecessary light. It shines into my eyes for no reason.” (and I’m fine with the conservation angle.)

What is wrong with darkness? It is natural. There is much of it in the universe.

I much prefer visiting with people in low light; lamp light; indirect light. I’m even very comfortable visiting with people in downright gloom where I can barely see them but I can hear their voices with unfettered senses and feel closer to their thoughts. Even children at sleepover parties know it’s better to talk with the lights out.

I’ve always found direct light a garish distraction; I’ve always arranged indirect lighting when hosting company and threatened to cut off Long Time Companion’s fingers if he won’t stop turning on the god damned chandeliers.

“We like our expected company to feel welcome,” say my current house mates when I ask if I can turn off the ten billion candlepower front foyer chandelier of mass destruction which cuts through every border of my bedroom door and door frame distracting me when I’m trying to fall asleep and which greets me with retina-searing trauma when I wake up and must slip out of bed for a quick pee in the bathroom right adjacent my room and which triggers suns-up bio-clock-resetting instincts assuring I will not be able to get back to sleep again no matter how badly I need it.

I think about asking my house mates if their company is expected to arrive by ship and if they think we’re living on a dark stormy coastline, but then reconsider.

I like light for football games and housecleaning and lost contact lenses.

And of course for torture. My old pal who had been an interrogator for the American military and who later parleyed his manipulation skills into a highly successful sales career and a permanently emotionally damaged ex-wife confirmed that it’s not just Hollywood: he did indeed shine lights into prisoners’ faces.

What is wrong with darkness?

Darkness is the place where all great wisdom is born.

It is where human babies are born.

And dreams.

It is where stars can be seen.

It is the dark beyond the window which allows us to see ourselves in it.