‘Twas the night before something
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a mouse.
The elephants were placed
By the fireplace with care
In hopes that dear Scarlett
Wouldn’t beware.
And I in my ‘kerchief
And Ron with her book
Were waiting for midnight
And the end of St. Kook.
By Anonymous
12.24.22
Anything can be weaponized but the male sexual organ is utterly destructive used this way. Millions and millions of women and children live with the memory of a penis used as a weapon. Sadly, I am entirely unable to even conceptualize a penis as anything but a weapon. Even in my tenderest feelings for a man, any man, I cannot forget he carries a weapon that if properly motivated can gravely injure me or someone I love. If a man is reading this and finds it disturbing, consider what actions could be taken to remove himself as a threat to anyone perceived as weaker or even inferior. This dynamic may have been with humans forever. I couldn’t say. It is not what makes a man. It is what destroys the bond between men and women and their families. If we are not cognizant of it, we are unconsciously contributing to it. What world do we want our daughters and sons to inherit? A man decides every day by his actions. We all decide by our silence.
My response to this male organ is not theoretical. It is visceral born of hours, days, and years of being targeted by men as a girl child. I can no more wish this response away than wish away my hand. If removing my hand would make this awful knowledge go, would I remove it? No of course not, but god knows I have tried to literally cut out this knowing. It does not work. An injury to mind and body can be healed but not removed. Even the healing cannot be complete because the scars will remain for the entirety of my life even as they remain to this day on my skin.
I cannot forgive the men that inflicted this pain on me. I can take action to stop it from happening in the world proximate to me. I don’t tolerate intimidating, violent, or drunk men in my life. I am lucky. The numbers of women and children who cannot make this choice is truly mind numbing. I am still left with my own pain stirred up by my simply seeking medical assistance. This is wrong. I wish it wasn’t so. I have to battle my way through it, or if not battle, at least chart a healthy course.
Joceile
9.17.22
[Picture of me as a baby held by my dad in 1958.]
Poem by John Roedel
my brain and
heart divorced
a decade ago
over who was
to blame about
how big of a mess
I have become
eventually,
they couldn't be
in the same room
with each other
now my head and heart
share custody of me
I stay with my brain
during the week
and my heart
gets me on weekends
they never speak to one another
- instead, they give me
the same note to pass
to each other every week
and their notes they
send to one another always
says the same thing:
"This is all your fault"
on Sundays
my heart complains
about how my
head has let me down
in the past
and on Wednesday
my head lists all
of the times my
heart has screwed
things up for me
in the future
they blame each
other for the
state of my life
there's been a lot
of yelling - and crying
so,
lately, I've been
spending a lot of
time with my gut
who serves as my
unofficial therapist
most nights, I sneak out of the
window in my ribcage
and slide down my spine
and collapse on my
gut's plush leather chair
that's always open for me
- and I just sit sit sit sit
until the sun comes up
last evening,
my gut asked me
if I was having a hard
time being caught
between my heart
and my head
I nodded
I said I didn't know
if I could live with
either of them anymore
"my heart is always sad about
something that happened yesterday
while my head is always worried
about something that may happen tomorrow,"
I lamented
my gut squeezed my hand
"I just can't live with
my mistakes of the past
or my anxiety about the future,"
I sighed
my gut smiled and said:
"in that case,
you should
go stay with your
lungs for a while,"
I was confused
- the look on my face gave it away
"if you are exhausted about
your heart's obsession with
the fixed past and your mind's focus
on the uncertain future
your lungs are the perfect place for you
there is no yesterday in your lungs
there is no tomorrow there either
there is only now
there is only inhale
there is only exhale
there is only this moment
there is only breath
and in that breath
you can rest while your
heart and head work
their relationship out."
this morning,
while my brain
was busy reading
tea leaves
and while my
heart was staring
at old photographs
I packed a little
bag and walked
to the door of
my lungs
before I could even knock
she opened the door
with a smile and as
a gust of air embraced me
she said
"what took you so long?"
~ john roedel (johnroedel.com)
I’m thinking about social service activities after retirement. I have several volunteer business models to choose from using a surprising number of skills I’ve acquired over the years. I am constantly sorting through them.
First is Senior Tech Support. I only consult on Apple products so don’t get any crazy ideas. My 55 and older friends are flummoxed by the technological requirements of navigating our modern world. As a long time tech nerd, these skills are in high demand. I have a small number of handpicked customers. The customer requirement is that I already love them. (Note: I cannot be bought with food.) My motto is “We put the Senior in tech support.” A little double entendre that entertains me. While there is ultimately satisfaction in getting tech fixed for people, the process is not as entertaining as I would like. Laughter doesn’t come easily in tech crisis moments and laughter is my chief motivator.
I’m also good dealing with customer service representatives and not yelling. But who in their right mind would do this when they weren’t required to no matter how good they were at it regardless of whether they could get the company agent to do their bidding? Volunteering for these calls would shorten my life span considerably. Life is already short.
As a four decade state worker, I’m skilled in navigating government bureaucracies. I’ve toyed with setting up a card table in the senior center with a sign saying, “BUREAUCRATIC QUESTIONS ANSWERED. Assistance in navigating government agencies. Tuesday and Thursdays 2-4 pm.” I even had a $13 sign made up for my own entertainment. This could work.
Me: “They said what?! That’s bullshit. Lemme talk to them.”
A side benefit is if my customer annoys me I can send them back to the end of the line with no hope of getting to me again before 4.
I’m also good with forms. As a small child, my mother gave me credit card applications to fill out. I tortured my younger brother sitting on the other side of the little table.
Me: “Name? Full name, last name first!”
Me: “Address? Sir, what do you mean you don’t know your address?!”
Since filling out these applications by making my poor brother give me his particulars, I have been a fan of forms. It’s probably a type of illness not yet recognized by the American Psychiatric Association because it’s so rare. Many times, I’ve checked the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders version 5, DSM-5 to its friends. So far, it’s not there.
I was impressed yesterday when I asked my medical provider’s office to complete a medical form for work and they gave me two forms to complete so they could complete my one form! Nirvana. I thought I’d died and joined the Army.
Website forms have the added benefit of combining my love of forms and tech. Saturday morning, my daughter called me to discuss filing for a trademark with the US trademark office. It perked me right up. I was all too happy to log in as her to begin the filing process while she was on the phone giving me answers. I came up with slogans for my new volunteer business. “I’m a bureaucrat. I can handle it!” And, “May the Form Be With You.” We carried on while navigating the trademark office website and application process. I am not one to hide my mistakes or outrage and we giggled together.
Prior to finishing today’s round with her, the site gave me a warning about logging off without saving the application. However, there was no evidence of a “save” button anywhere on the site nor instructions on how to save. After receiving screenshots, Alex agreed there was no “save” button on the website. This resulted in a spontaneous song to the tune of “If I Had a Hammer.”
“If I had a save button, I’d save it in the morning. I’d save it in the evening all over this site. I’d save out warning. I’d save out craziness. I’d save out the love between my brothers and my sisters. If I-I-I on-ly could save.”
At this point, hilarity ensued with Alex informing me she laughed so hard she cried. This is always a marker of parental success. Could this be a sign for my aging future?
Reporting from Life’s front.
Joceile
7.30.22
Lately, I’ve been contemplating that my death could be sooner than later. Of course, we’re all dying. We just have different trajectories. I know something is going to take me out. I’ve wondered just what that might be.
I’ve watched and taken note as much as one can of many different ways of dying including the expected, terminal illness, and unexpected, being hit by a car. I’ve always been curious as to how my earthly exit would come. I’ve died many times in my dreams. As I transition between here and there, my recurrent thought is, “Ah, so this is how it happens,” followed by a great sense of satisfaction and accomplishment.
In any case, I’ve been sick since April. An abdominal illness that continues to metamorphasize from gallbladder to uterus to bladder. It circles tighter and tighter taunting me with hope of a resolution just barely out of reach. I’m not feeling especially hopeful about that resolution right now. In fact, I fear it may be my final resolution. Ironically, I can’t know and won’t know until I reach some as yet undetermined outcome. More than likely I will have plenty of time to anticipate the end if this is how it goes. My job is to not start planning my funeral prematurely.
There is a sweetness to noticing the components of life. There’s no downside unless I start maxing out the charge card in anticipation. My experience is that being in great pain requires focusing on many small things around me. Big things are often out of reach when I’m in this state. My European trip next spring is in danger…again.
As a thought experiment, imaging the world without me is entertaining, seeing where I make ripples and where my presence is immaterial. My love and passions make ripples. Otherwise, my passing is transparent. Noticing these contradictions is reassuring. I’m okay with not inflating my importance. In fact, it gives me hope for the world’s future. I can think of a few people whose importance I would like to deflate. However, my powers are limited.
If I’m dying younger than I’d like, it’d be funny except it’s not. The thing is, I’m important, and important, and important, and then I become a blip, a fading memory receding into nothingness. It’s neither good nor bad. Like gravity, it’s elemental whether I choose to believe it or not. I’m Joceile in this time and place. No one will ever be me.
Ronnie points out I’m scared. Exactly. Yesterday, a doctor used the “C” word in reference to my bladder. Use of that word should only be made with great thought by a medical provider. Saying it’s a possibility is worrying. Could a cancer diagnosis be on its way? I don’t feel like my medical professionals are with me on this. As I await more medical information, I have a message for my doctor, “If I’m going to die, will you at least walk to the end of the dock and wave?” I’ll need a final gesture.
My confusion is, “Is this it?” I can’t know until I know. Life is full of possibilities even as I may stagger to the last day. I close my eyes and look out there in the darkness waiting for a picture to take shape. I’m aware that looking “out there” is also looking “in here” at what’s inside me. The pictures developing are constantly changing decrying a fixed pronouncement.
It’s ironic that the majority of my life I contemplated death because I was suicidal. Now at the nadir when I’m embracing life and fully engaged with it, I contemplate death because I’m getting closer to it. It’s undeniable. It will happen one day. At times, I get so excited I forget I’m just tiptoeing to infinity. The greatest magic is not in what I do but how I feel doing it. That is my value. That’s my judgment. The final straw is that if I knew the day, I’d tell myself. As I don’t, I can’t. Contradictions abound. Ain’t it the way?
To Life.
Joceile
7.25.22
In July, the sun rises above the dock. When the sky and water are just right, I see the dock to the sky.
Joceile
7.14.22
At five, I wanted a treehouse. The idea filled my mind with possibilities. I’m sure I talked about it to my parents hoping for a miracle. Two years later while I was at school, my father built a platform between three “pussy willow” trees with my four year old brother.
Although I was excited by the foundation of a treehouse, it stung that he built it with my brother. It frustrated me that my father could not accept me as an athletic daughter with outdoor interests. I begged my father to play catch with me but his disinterest was obvious. My brother wasn’t the son my father wanted. He continued to push my brother but overall did little with us. Building the treehouse platform was one of the few things he ever built for us. Not being the child chosen to build the platform did nothing to dampen my enthusiasm for treehouse possibilities. I went to work.
The square platform was five feet high and three feet on a side. It sit close to the creek running through our backyard. It was actually a runoff stream from the highway up the hill but I didn’t know that then. The creek stirred wildlife possibilities in my mind leading to endless hours of imagination and bug watching while looking for non-existent fish. Mud daubers often rested on my hand while I remained perfectly still. I was never stung. It was obvious to me the platform was a ship steering into adventure.
My first act was to build the front wall as the prow of the ship from which I would command as captain. My poor brother was first mate and treated accordingly. I berated him mercilessly when he brought the wrong piece of wood. I think my model was the Skipper’s treatment of Gilligan on the television show. Eventually, shame stopped my bad captain behavior.
We had old lumber in an ancient garage we called the shop. In it, I found the proper sized wood for the prow nailing it between the two trees. It commanded a view of the backyard, creek, and overgrowth obscured neighboring yards. I could envision a mile west to Puget Sound. I was captain and nothing was outside my purview. Ship identification was nicely solved by nailing an old license plate on the front.
My father had sunk a post to support the fourth platform corner with the three trees. As a type of willow, the trees were small in diameter and very soft. They happily grew on the banks of the stream. Two by four ladder rungs allowed platform access on the side away from the stream. To do more than nail boards between trees required carpentry skills I did not have. I embarked on trial and error to learn what worked. I had wood, nails, a hammer, and handsaw. My creativity was on full boil. After one success, the next development was inevitable.
I started by figuring out how to create additional platforms. After the front of the boat, next up were shelves for sleeping bunks under the main deck for sailors. Several collapsed bunks taught me basic support concepts. The captain and first mate were not seriously injured in these engineering failures. The poor trees survived countless nails and, although mistreated, stood fast. Every spring, they grew pussy willows (or had them underneath and along side). I loved the soft, textured buds and took comfort in their gentleness.
[Picture of a bareheaded Zack with me in a Calvary hat outside a roughly built shed in pre-treehouse times. 1963]
The three Carlson kids who lived across the street inspected the treehouse ship daily. After the failed bunks, I began building the upper decks. These were required for viewing and segregating passengers. We paired off by age groups. Linda and I were the oldest, my brother, Zack, and Christine were next with the younger, Robbie, tagging along.
Building a successful roof created a new ship deck which required a third deck to accommodate the pairs which naturally required a roof for rainy weather. After all, this was the Pacific Northwest. The platforms were strong enough for one upper deck occupancy at a time. Of course, I pushed it with children on each deck for full occupancy. After loading the decks as we were settling in for the voyage, there was a slow motion collapse of the third deck into the second deck bringing the down entire upper structure. I gave the command, “Abandon ship!” Children scurried out from under the cascading decks. While no children were injured, I learned an important lesson. There are limits to what’s possible and therefore desirable. I didn’t make the over enthusiastic deck mistake again.
In the second year, my father added a six foot extension at the rear of the platform on two additional five foot high posts. It may have been at our insistence for sleeping in the treehouse. These posts stood firm as the rain swollen creek expanded and contracted around them which only added to my idea of a ship. The new platform made sleeping outside in the treehouse a real possibility.
First up was protection to keep us from rolling off the platform into the stream. Zack and I had always explored outside sleeping options. We never had a proper tent but we had sleeping bags, recycled material, and imagination. My brother was always game for my lunacy. We slept on the front patio. We slept in different parts of the yard under the trees or on the front grass. Each location was unique. I found a long piece of wire fencing which I fashioned as a arc over us with plastic to protect us. We slept under it often and regularly moved it around. I decided it made a perfect protective barrier on the creek side of the platform. It did not block off the view. With no roof, our sleeping bags were open to the stars while hovering over the creek. It was heaven.
I slept there with my brother. My favorite was to invite one of my friends. There was only room for two. My best friend, Linda Carlsen, moved away during my fourth grade summer. I was bereft. The next year, I met Cathy Cavette.
At 11 years old, Cathy and I were both tall girls in elementary school. We had good times. Cathy thought I was funny. I could certainly act out a story with my long, thin limbs waving crazily in improv comedy. Cathy delighted in me coming to her house entertaining her and her older sister. “Can you believe her,” she’d say. “She’s just crazy. You’re crazy but so funny.” They laughed in response to my antics which spurred me on. I always enjoy an appreciative audience. I wanted to be a comedian like Carol Burnett.
We frequently slept over at each other’s house during the summer. I remember her and I sleeping on the treehouse platform. Once in the middle of the night, I awoke to a lovely bright, full moon floating perfectly above us. I woke Cathy to show her. She simply couldn’t believe I would wake her in the middle of the night just to look at the moon. “You woke me up to look at the moon?! Just to look at the moon!” For the next two years, she told every new kid we met, “She woke me up in the middle of the night just to look at the moon! Can you believe that?” This response mystified me. It wasn’t the least bit odd to me. This remains true. I love great views, night or day.
Cathy moved the summer of sixth grade outside my school system. I only saw her a couple times after that. I wonder what she thinks of the moon now. Maybe once in awhile when she notices the moon she thinks of the night with me in the treehouse. Wherever she is, I hope so.
[I woke up at four in the morning one day in May this year and snapped this picture of the crescent moon over a shadowed lake.]
Entering junior high after Cathy moved, I became troubled and distracted. My treehouse lost allure. The next year I ran away from my mother’s house after the divorce. I never forgot the joy the treehouse brought me in imagination and moonlit nights. I didn’t build another treehouse until my daughter reached eight over twenty-five years later.
***
I’ve never been trained in wood work. I did spend years observing my grandfather. I became a barbarian carpenter. The hallmark of barbarian carpentry is very sturdy overbuilt creations that last forever with too many nails or screws. Angles other than 90 degrees flummox me. With no training, I specialize in two by four creations from collecting used lumber. I may not have many skills but I do have my grandpa’s recycle and reuse genes down to my core. In other words, my builds aren’t pretty but they function as intended.
Into this enters my daughter. Scrounging in my wood pile, I built her a wooden wagon. I gave her a smaller hammer and nails to pound in wood pieces. I avoid sawing but she had a try at the handsaw. The wagon was bigger than necessary probably because the floor piece was too wide to cut with a handsaw. She pulled it with rope fastened in holes on the front two sides. It weighed a ton. With scrounged black plastic lawn mower wheels, it rolled. It was a workout for a three year old. In her black patent leather shoes and pink and purple outfit, she strained like a farmer in frills pulling against a stubborn mule. With momentum it moved which is the only measurement of success in barbarian carpentry. Unfortunately, it caused her to fall on her keister from leaning back so hard to move it.
I followed this by sinking a post with a beam connected to the carport to create a wooden swing. Sadly, I used what little rope I had on the wagon so it was hung with dog leash chains. It was not the smoothest swing but it worked meeting my stringent barbarian standards. I followed with a ladder connected to a platform for a slide. What does a barbarian do with a home built wooden slide? Line it with plastic, of course, to prevent slivers. One can see I was cooking on several if not all burners. And when the plastic doesn’t slide well? Run water down it. Note to self, place cushioning at the bottom over the hard dirt for daughter’s little butt to land. For a bit after that she refused to go down it and always used her feet on the sides to slow her decent. She hasn’t forgiven me. Lesson learned.
The following year, I recruited her to build a playhouse at the far edge of the yard complete with Dutch doors, used inset plexiglass window, and windows in each wall. With an twelve inch elevated floor, it had two steps up. Of course, the roof had a 90 degree peak making it the same height as the walls. It didn’t look that funny and resembled a play house. Standing in it with my head in the peak caused a final attic window installation.
I believe my daughter preferred painting. I did not treat her like a first mate and sprung for the cost of pale green and lavender paint having none in my carport stock. I tried not to constantly manage her painting over the windowpane edges. The masking tape wasn’t entirely successful. It was important they remain somewhat transparent or what’s the point?
After the playhouse, I tackled the dream of a treehouse. There were six trees in a rough circle in the untamed wilderness of the side yard. Across a dirt driveway, it connected to a steep sided, wooded ravine that wound through our urban area for a mile. It was a lovely location. Connecting the trees, I built a wooden platform with Alex six feet high. Three rungs connected to a small platform with two upper rungs providing access. I finished the platform with two heights of side rails for safety. There was a slight tilt to one side requiring a lip to avoid things rolling off. Alex and I consulted on a weak point in the support structure. Once fixed, we were good to go.
A unique place developed underneath. It could be a play area but eventually became extra firewood storage. It almost kept it dry. With a small platform to gain access, our large dogs easily learned to climb up. At the age of eight, it was safe for our daughter. With more than six feet on a side, I’d rediscovered heaven.
My daughter and her friends played on and around it. Of course with youthful memories of my treehouse, my mission was to sleep on it. Ronnie and I began our exploration of what bedding combination worked best. We hauled up a four inch foam pad. The memory foam was heavy but youth and determination got it up there. Laying on the platform and seeing the sky through the circle of trees was a spiritual experience. Nestled in their bosom, watching the birds, we were elevated and entranced. The sheets and blankets had mixed success. We settled on the sleeping bags zipped together. The three of us tried to sleep there with the dogs. It didn’t work for Alex. With her bedroom window open next to the treehouse, she could call to us. The dogs visited but opted for ground sentry duty. For Ronnie and I, it was another setting for our summer commitment to sleep outside.
It was a lovely spot. It did require us to decamp for rain. I hated it when we misjudged and had to haul down the bedding in the middle of the night including the unwieldy memory foam. It’s a question in my mind whether we were committed or should have been. It was a simple pleasure.
My issue was night peeing. Ronnie’s skills are excellent in squatting and aiming. Me, not so much. I’m long and tall so one would think hanging off the treehouse would be easy as Ronnie has often commented. The aiming piece is not my strength in preventing extraneous spray where it isn’t wanted. I tried to limit the surface damage to my side of the sleeping bag. It did require regular washing. This is always an issue for me when camping. I’ve never mastered rustic peeing.
Over the years, we’ve limited ourselves to sleeping on our deck. We’ve found light portable bed stands and tweaked mattress types with aging. There’s also a plastic cover stored underneath for summer rains. Our commitment to sleeping outside under summer stars has not changed. I still fondly remember the treehouses.
In her Mother’s Day card to me this year, Alex made this comment: “Thank you for teaching me how to play… The treehouse was an incredible success—more for you and Ronnie than me, but fun to build.” I may not have passed on my love of treehouses. But what higher praise than teaching my daughter to play in the world of imagination? The world desperately needs people of all ages who know how to play outside and laugh at themselves. We need celebration of the mundane. My mission is to relish it wherever I find it. Life is short. I only get one shot.
Joceile
7.4.22
[A blurred picture of Alex closing the playhouse door tucked in trees with the wooden wagon next to it on the right. Circa 1994]
I’ve been contemplating why I write. My essays, my book, are about me, my history, and my understanding of what happened to me. I keep digging and sorting; holding up events, peering from multiple angles; clucking my tongue and shaking my head; seeking the core of who I am and how I came to be who I am in this moment.
My writing isn’t important to anyone else. Others may enjoy it. It may cause them to reflect. It may put words to their feelings. But understanding me gives me power. I can’t be made fun of if I’ve already explored my disasters and made the fun myself. I can’t be made to feel less than if I’ve already claimed my less than parts. Facing the dissonance of my past and present, accepting that horrible things are horrible but do not define who I may be, enables me to engage with myself, and face the truth of me as a flawed but triumphant being. The two things are not exclusive. I write from this perspective. In part, it’s why I am able to admit my failings, my bad behavior, and still remain the hero of my story.
Writing this way enables me to be closer to the version of myself I want to express. Without this ongoing interrogation of who I’ve been, I can’t know who I am and who I might become. Without ongoing introspection, I don’t have a whit’s chance of becoming my future. I inspect my past for understanding, enabling me to shorten the distance to who I want to be.
There’s no saving the world, no fame or success, just simple investigation. If I’m blessed with language lucidity, why wouldn’t I use it as a tool to assist in this endeavor? Sherlock Holmes is the investigator; Dr. Watson is the writer. Holmes cannot reflect brilliance to us without Watson’s dogged review. I am both of them, dancing in this big chance at an earthly life.
Joceile
6.27.22
I worked to eliminate the word “but” from my communication long ago. It’s been so long I can’t fully articulate why. I know it’s poor communication. Consider, “I’m sorry I hurt your feelings but…” When I hear that I know the message is insincere. The person isn’t taking responsibility for their action; doesn’t truly know its impact; and is likely to repeat it.
The use of “but” is also marker when observing others at work. By noticing who uses it, I can gauge their effectiveness. It can be a simple and revealing tool. Recently, I came across this explanation:
A very smart woman I worked with once told me that if eliminated the word “but” from my professional vocabulary, l'd find greater acceptance for my ideas, and greater cooperation from my team members. She said people would have a very different perception of me if I could change this one thing.
The reason, she said, is because the word “but" negates everything that precedes it, and you cast a negative spin on anything you say when you use it. Consider, for example, "We can do it this way, but it'll be way too expensive given our budget," versus "We can do it this way, and if we do, we'll need to cut back on other important features." The first indicates that we can't even consider the option. The second acknowledges possibility and describes consequences.
"But" is exclusive and isolating, “and" is inclusive and welcoming. She was absolutely right, and it's advice I have used with great success for the past 30 years of my life.
[Author unknown]
Joceile
6.18.22
Contemplating the final act in last night’s dream brought to mind LAMP. The License Application Mitigation Project (LAMP) was an information technology (IT) project in the Washington State Department of Licensing (DOL) in the 90s in an effort to consolidate IT software programs into a consistent, cohesive program across multiple IT services within DOL. (Did I lose you already?) Imagine, for example, the driver’s licensing program written in software language that can no longer be effectively changed after decades of tweaking. It can’t access vehicle licensing nor cross reference it in any way as vehicle software was developed separately. Neither could communicate with the other. (Whose dang abandoned car is this? Where does the fool live now? Or, we’ve lost Joceile Moore. What’s the license number for her vehicle?) Getting information from one system to the other required ridiculous amounts of staff time.
This hamstrung overall systemic changes, law enforcement requests, and other entities needing information. (Systems that couldn’t communicate with others of their kind sound very quaint now.) Millions of lines of patched code created ongoing bugs and glitches requiring hours of correction and tinkering by IT professionals (at a very high rate of pay, I might add) which required inserting additional lines of code. (I am not a software engineer. This is my lay understanding so don’t quote me.) LAMP was the first of its kind for the department though not the first large scale attempt for state government. The legislature approved money for the project. (The acronym stuck but I had to look up the words behind it.)
I joined Personnel (now called human resources or the universally beloved term “HR” by employees everywhere) at DOL in December 1995. As a personnel officer, I supported the IT division but not the LAMP project which was a separate entity with its own budget, staffing, and leadership. I worked with personnel officers who supported project employees. Staff from the project and IT overlapped and transferred between divisions based on staffing needs. LAMP was allowed to hire contract workers with limited rights and no union affiliation. (My part-time position was originally funded by LAMP. Each employee position in state government is funded by a division budget. Because I didn’t directly support LAMP, technically my position shouldn’t have been funded out of that budget. But, who was checking? My management had dire labor needs and I had dire employment needs.)
Staffed by skilled professionals, LAMP was plagued by missed deadlines and cost overruns. The work was incredibly complex. A change here affected others down the line requiring follow up and correction. (If one wanted to create endless high paying opportunities, this was a trough. Of course, this was never the case.) Project employees were under constant pressure, long hours, and continued threats that time was running out from state leadership, an oversight board, and the legislature. With each passed deadline, the agency pled for more time. Three more months led to six which led to twelve. Completion was always on the horizon.
Employees and managers I respected were involved. With a heavy heart, agency leadership was forced to terminate the LAMP project before completion prior to the year 2000* resulting in loss of employment for many, contract terminations, and layoffs. Agency employees were dispirited. (Cynics would say it had wasted millions.) Personnel assigned all its staff to manage position reductions and determine lay-off options for individuals. (Notifying employees of lay-off options is also known as the second worse job in human resource management.) Many employees’ only option was termination. (Known as the worst job human resources.) I was tapped to support staff facing employment uncertainty. (Eventually, I pointed out to my supervisor I was also facing employment uncertainty as my position was entirely funded by the condemned budget. “Oh, I never thought of that,” she said. “Do you need support?) The project director was a respected and beloved man. (I’ve forgotten his name.) He was kind to me (and approved my funding). He became ill towards the end. I don’t think he lived long after.
I have memories of many good people leaving by the end of the century. Planning for Y2K also affected massive numbers of records. With calendars flipping to the year 2000, Y2K ended with either much ado about nothing or such success that some believed it had never actually been a threat. [For the younger generation, Y2K related to results of a long standing software design identifying years by only two digits. The original design economized limited early computer processing power and memory. As the year 2000 neared, a software reckoning approached. Dates would be interpreted incorrectly by computer systems worldwide. Anyone born in 2001 would be mistaken by computer programs as born in 1901, a nightmare for driver’s licenses and any other data referencing dates.]
Into the this timeline, I start my dream...
We were in hour 28 of a new IT crisis. We were short staffed. Anyone who could handle a keyboard was enlisted to help. It was beyond the capabilities for many staff who’d been roped in. Supervisors were on vacation. Staff were elevated in the emergency for positions they weren’t qualified for. We were recording everything so we’d know later what we did for people who knew what they were doing to backtrack and fix later. We couldn’t let anyone go for poor performance because we didn’t have enough bodies. My laptop memory was filling up. All our laptops were running out of memory. (Could this be a metaphor?)
Finally we started calling IT employees who had left the agency for one reason or another years or decades prior to come back and help. I was discovering them with laptops, commandeering unoccupied offices and other available spaces, trying to keep things moving. Glad to see so many of them, I was still intimidated by their brilliance. When I was leaving for a break, former employees repeatedly came to the door needing help with access because they no longer had keys. (We didn’t have keycards.)
I greeted them with surprise and delight because I hadn’t seen them in so long. I met an old friend at the door. “Wow,” I said, “It’s like I’m in the last season at the end of a long series when they bring back old characters in a dream sequence.” (If you’ve ever been tortured by “Grey’s Anatomy,” you know what I mean.)
With a wry smile she said, “That’s because we are.” Suddenly, I knew she was right. We were in the last season of a long series.
Exhausted, I remained outside. Walking through city streets, there was social upheaval all around. With the usual commuters in buses and cars competing with bicyclists and pedestrians, stunned refugees in various states of clothing threaded their way with backpacks, rolling luggage, and occasional grocery carts filled with worldly belongings.
I met a friend in this throng of humanity. It was literally and figuratively an uphill climb. Ultimately, I was in a car following packed cars around a great coast of flat wastelands. Unable to understand why cars continued to follow the road, I veered off. It looked smooth but was in fact a dense, sticky combination of oily sand and mud. The car slowed and lost traction. “Oh,” I thought, “this is why no no one goes out here.” Before getting stuck, I worked the car back to the road, continuing to follow others into an uncertain future for me, my partner, and my child.
Does the dream mean anything? It’s hard to know other than we’re in for a rough ride. I’ll hold onto those I love and be kind to those I don’t as the only sure course in the road ahead. Who will do the same? I can only hope they show up at the door so I can let them in and get them settled to help in the crisis.
In a plea for Life, reporting from the front.
Joceile
6.11.22
(2022, that is.)
[Foggy red lake sunrise signaling bad weather ahead.]
I often feel like I live with a lunatic. No, not Ronnie. It’s that person I have to hang out with all day and all night for my entire life. It’s me.
I live with the obsessions, random thoughts, anger, and passion. The repetitive stories, memes, complaints, dismay, complexity. I get to hear it all and for what? Just a life well lived? When did I say yes?
Does a life well lived make up for it? The carrying-on, the whining, belligerence, bad behavior, insensitive spoken words, and all the rest? Underlying it is the voice asking, “Why?” “Why do my feet hurt?” “Why did my car get dented?” “Why do I love this fraying shirt so much that can’t be replaced?” Why, why, why?
Or does the love, a kind gesture, or a listening ear even when I’d rather howl, become a gift freely given that counts most in the physical world and that of the soul?
Do these things balance out even though I live with the person that can’t explain the mystery of life, or why I hurt so bad for no reason, and why I want to slug inanimate objects, or pull out my hair?
As if this weren’t enough, she’s also busy in her virtual reality. Her dream world is not observable by others but very, very busy including most Popular Annoying Moments, Scariest Worries, and Regurgitating the Past with Nazi Appearances and other Frightening Creatures. (I’m so grateful I never saw a zombie movie.) Sprinkled in are Murder Mysteries and Great Spy episodes with me starring as protagonist. I didn’t know I could play a clever secret agent man or an indomitable Sherlock Holmes. I wake up to just get peace and quiet.
The lunatic has problematic play lists for daytime hours too. Greatest hits include, “Most Embarrassing Moments,” “Biggest Mistakes” and the most popular, “Best Bad Decisions.” Please, amnesia would be good right now.
In all this, if I sit quietly, I can feel the love inside, the desire to do good or at least do no harm, the knowledge or belief, if you will, that I am part of the earth and no more important nor less important than the smallest of life.
The lunatic often apologizes to inanimate objects or what some people would consider non-sentient beings. I had an influx of tiny sugar ants on my desk. The lunatic hated to kill individuals and apologized to each one when forced to do so. After treating my desk and finding a dozen or more dead, the lunatic had a memorial service. I have to be vigilant in keeping her from taking me altogether down Crazy Street.
Awhile back, I made a file folder called, “The Good Things” so when I’m feeling blue I can reflect on them. It includes nice things people said or wrote to me; text exchanges; and my written remembrances of conversations about qualities of mine that felt good. My daughter cites a statistic that for every negative comment, it takes ten positive comments to erase that one powerful negative. The folder could be my ticket out of regret lunacy. Put another way, it keeps the lunatic focused on good things when I need a break.
In addition, the lunatic thinks I’m some kind of writer. She’s forever taking notes, writing things down, electronically filing email exchanges. She thinks she’s a reporter at Life’s front. She pesters me to write things down anywhere, anytime, and thinks she has to report them to the internet newsroom. There’s only so much I can do with this kind of lunacy with a front row seat 24/7.
I think we all have some version of that chatter. We give different names to that inner Critical Voice. Still, who is going to turn off this ghastly noise in my head? I breathe deeply. I meditate. I gratefully watch the water, trees, birds, bugs, and mountain in the land of my birth. In a final desperate distraction, I watch a Mets’ baseball game or a Monte Python movie. I still hear those thoughts, “You should have bought that.” “Didn’t you feel ashamed?” “That was a big mistake.” “How long are you going to hold onto that?”
They say the only way out of life’s problems is through them. That’s no joke. I gotta keep living this life. I’ll see where it goes and where it ends. In the meantime, this shit is hard work. I don’t remember signing up for this.
I’m still looking for the 1-800 number to express my dismay. If I find the number, I’ll probably be on hold for a century. That’s how they get us to buy into this life. We can’t get a hold of customer service to resolve our complaints.
To Life.
Joceile
4.5.22
[Picture of me and cat, Scarlett, while I try to get a grip on the lunatic. There’s no certainty Scarlett has an internal voice like mine. The creep!]
