I’ve been blathering here for nearly half an hour, and nothing even remotely coherent has come forth.

I’m not stopped up. I’m just…quiet.

I do not have the time that I want. I do not have the freedom that I want. I do things I don’t care about. And, I’m progressing at a moderate pace in all directions that I care about — all the directions that, eighty years from now, I will feel sharp remorse for not pursuing; Michael, wife, book, health, in no particular order. Or the order changes with the time and need.

*pause*

Something is most assuredly happening to me, or has happened. I am not normally this “clear”, in a strictly Scientologist sense of the word. Hrm.

---

As an aside, does anyone have a link to the practice of Australian aboriniginal hunting parties to take on four distinct roles, those being Warrior, Leader, Mystic, and Clown?

To understand this, you need to understand that, in general, I will tend to avoid confrontation or conflict. I’ve written three paragraphs about that, but that sentence says it all, so I’ll leave it at that.

*** *** ***

The latest in a long line of changes seems to be upon me.
Displayed in three attractive poses, linguistically snapshot
and mounted for your enjoyment, thus:

1. Mark Architect. A member of the Employer’s family, senior
architect, generally useless. He strode into my office (the
office, one must admit, of the merest lackey of the Employer’s
empire) and slapped his hand down on my desk.

“I had some files on the network, and they’re gone. I want
them back.” Slap, again. “Now.”

I calmly pushed myself back from the computer, turned my chair,
and relaxed my hands into my lap. “First off, let’s be clear.
I don’t march into your office and demand things in a rude
fashion. I don’t appreciate you doing that in my office.
Please don’t.” I waited in relaxed silence until he started to
shift uncomfortably. “Now, the good news is, I can save your
files.” And, smiling in a friendly way, did so.

2. Jim Estimator. My boss, an aging man in his late 60’s,
keeps everything he works on in utter chaos so that he is the
only one who understands what is going on. I sympathized, but
can’t approve; I have to clean up after him. But, he’s the
boss, and his way is the way things are done.

Until this week. I came in with a bid from a subcontractor,
wanting to know if the wording was sufficient to our needs. He
snatched it from my hands. “I’ll handle this,” he cried, and
began filling out a fax form with vitriol, implying in his
wording of the fax that the subtrade had been accusing us of
malfeasance. I decided that I had no control - nor should have
any - over his talking with the subtrades, so left.

When his fax receipt printed, I made a copy and brought it to
him. “Your copy. In the future, would you please not start
fights in the middle of my work?”

“I didn’t.”

“You surely did. You used charged language here, here, and
here,” I said, indicating the wording in question, “to imply
that he had started a name-calling match…which he hadn’t.
I’m trying to create a professional relationship with this
subtrade, and you are giving them reason to believe that, in
dealing with me, they have to fight with you.”

“Well, they’ve been doing things like this for three years –”

“But not in this bid.”

“It’s been going on –”

“But not in this bid. And not with me. They have been
appropriate with me.” Silence. I continued, “I don’t mind you
continuing your squabble with the subtrade. Just, please,
don’t do it where I am trying to work for you. You are making
it hard to succeed at what you ask of me.”

More silence. Then, “All right.”

3. Michael. I have always been (too) gentle with the kids,
understanding their perspective and reluctant to force my will
on them, as my will is based on motives they have not. Michael
is fraught over the enormity of his situation; not graduating,
about to be cast into adulthood, required to make decisions for
himself….

I took five minutes of his time, by the clock. I asked his
plans, in thirty seconds or less. Nodding, I said, “fine. But
understand, what you are proposing is about $1,000 a semester.
I will help up to half of the first semester. After that, no
promises. Further, I am deeply unwilling to help you all the
way through school. I need my money for things I want to do.

“Furthermore, you should understand that, currently, child
support does not quite cover your groceries and your car
insurance. If you stop going to school, child support stops,
and suddenly so does the help with food & car.

“Which means that, if you are not going to school, you must be
bringing home at least that much money to pay for what it
covered…and be working toward your own place. I have no
interest in housing you for very long.

“I’m not kicking you out, but you need to figure out what you
want and how you’ll get there pretty quickly, because in about
three weeks I will be looking at your actions and making some
decisions.”

***

All three of these happened in this last week. None of them
were accompanied by huge anger or stress. None of them brought
any stress on their heels.

I appear to have begun to be assertive, and to not feel guilty
or traumatized by being so.

Astonishing.

I’ve been building to a snarling discontent about Michael’s schooling. Six years ago he decided that he wasn’t having fun, but couldn’t find the motivation to deal and complete his schooling anyway. This was during the beginning of his mother’s and my divorce, so it was understandable. Then I was gone, and his mother was an absentee at best, willing to ignore him if he would repay her by not being too troubling.

Then he came here, after fighting it for a year. In a year’s time he has turned around six years of bad habits, and done it all on his own. Amazing feat. Unfortunately, one does not overcome six years of the consequences of one’s effort in a single year.

Last September we discussed his possible avenues to graduation. Most of them required at least another year of school. There was one magic-door-to-freedom; someone could shell out $2,500 in fees for a correspondence course that would grant high school credits, he could complete those concurrently with his senior year, and in June all his actions would cancel one another out, and he wouldn’t have to face the consequences of his five year, ah, self-exploration period. If the money was available, if we started right then, if it was accepted by the school, if if if if. The harsh reality was that he would be attending some form of school for another year…but could shorten that with the correspondence courses.

Money, however, was short. When child support kicked in, then we could give it a try, if he was doing well in classes, if he was doing well in the self-paced Options make-up course at the school. Around January, his success at school became more moderate, and his success at Options disappeared. He had, I believe, lost faith that his magic fix-it was still in the works.

Money finally became available for the first of his courses in March, but by then he had gone three months without any progress - at all - in his Options course. I was more than a little hesitant, and dragged my feet. Michael hadn’t found out if the correspondence courses would be accepted by his school, hadn’t talked with the counseller about it, hadn’t made progress in Options…hadn’t done his portion.

Then Shannon lost her job. Money, again, was tight.

But for five months, every progress report from Options shows exactly the same progress as the last one. For three months, he has not completed a single assignment, as far as I am able to tell.

I think he’s given up hope of a quiet, gentle cruise through school, and the despair has entirely demotivated him to make extra progress.

And, y’know, I’m fine with that. I understand it. I went through it. I am, in fact, a high-school drop out.

But I’ve been getting angry about it.

And angrier.

“His problem,” I say, and know that I’m right. “His behaviors. His payoff.” I nod. I agree with me. “Not about me,” I continue.

No nod.

Hrm.

And I get angrier. I fuss, fume, I fulminate. And didn’t nod.

This morning on the way to work, I ranted at Shannon. “His behaviors,” I snarled. “His payoff. His,” I spat, yes, venomously, “problem. Not. Mine.

“So why,” I asked through clenched teeth and curled lips, “am I so angry about this, if it isn’t about me?”

Shannon, sleepy, watched, knowing that if I’m talking that I already have all the help anyone can give me. She stood ready to poke me if I went quiet, or kick me if I turned stupid. Or to grab the steering wheel if I was so rant-y that I forgot to steer.

“If I’m angry, it must be about me.” Hm. Consider. A thought struck, and I spake it, trying it on for size. “He was ignored with his mother, and failed where I couldn’t save him. He got here, and is stalling out again because he’s finally decided that nobody is going to wave a magic wand and undo all of his actions. Nobody dished out the money to make it easy. No one saved him. And so he’s fussy because he has to live with the consequences of his actions.

“If he had come down here a year earlier instead of fighting it, he would have graduated on time. If he had put forth huge effort in Options this year, he could at least walk through graduation. But he didn’t. And he didn’t. He wouldn’t let me save him, and then the only way I could save him was to drop cash I didn’t have or divert it from everything else that I want to do, and I didn’t save him.”

Shannon said, “When did it become your job to save him?”

“It’s not my job. I want to save him. But I don’t want to give up everything that I want, anymore, to save anybody, and that little bastard wouldn’t cooperate and let me save him any other way, and now he has to live with the consequences of his actions and he doesn’t like it and I don’t like it and we both just want all of this to go away but he still needs saving and I CAN’T and I’m mad at him for not letting me save him when I could have and I’m mad at me for wanting to now and mad at me for not giving up everything to save him and –” I took a breath “– I guess it is about me, after all.”

I checked my palms. No holes.

Damn.

I am trapped away from the web but for a few minutes each day. Details when I work around that.

Argh. Cold turkey…seizures….

High Concept: I wrote, enjoyed the time spent writing, and was happy afterwards.