Thismany

Somewhere in my soul, in my spirit, there are five hundred words.  Somewhere in me is the wherewithal to make it happen.  I swear that should be werewithal.  I really do.

The cup I have feels small, but in it, there is so much unmeasured time.  Sands in the hourglass.  They have no number beyond: this many.  So “this many” has to suffice.

I don’t trust this place, I suppose, to hold the innermost of the innermost thoughts.  Somehow, I guess, I feel there needs to be more security.  There needs to be fewer eyes when it’s really only mine we have to be concerned about.  The white space feels damning, knowing, spartan, infertile.  It doesn’t want to grow what’s planted.  It doesn’t give off warmth, it doesn’t call me towards it, bid me enter.  It says, if anything, if any whisper is audible at all…”Isn’t there a to-do list to look at?  To mentally stroke until you are absolutely sure of the draw of energy it would take to do the things that are written upon it.  To ensure that you are “on the ball,” “on top of sh..,” “with it.  It feels so luxuriant to write while at work.  Like taking your pants off in a public place.  No matter if nobody’s looking, no matter if someone would have to distend their neck to see it, there’s still a modesty here – in the open cube with the passers-by passing by.  I don’t want to make a mistake and wander off to feed a copier and suddenly my thoughts on de-pantsing are now bandied about.  I don’t want to be questioned, doubted, untrusted.  I feel like that’s the currency I get by with now.  For ages I was dead broke on that account and only time has allowed me to seem a bit more of a fixture, a purposeful being.  Only being in every morning and going home every night for a year and a half has created a sense of expectation.  I probably will be in this seat tomorrow, I probably will send the emails I say I will, I probably will give you the things you want around the time you want them.  You can mostly be sure of me.

I wish 30+ years had given me an inkling of the same within myself.  It’s not like we don’t have good evidence for a bit of self-faith.  Why, just yesterday, I was told by some kind soul I admired that I was his favorite.  Admired because, once,  in a meeting he spoke plainly and eloquently about sales enablement and some part of me mildly cared as a result.  That, and he appeared to be in my age bracket.  Twas nice, I guess, to see that the little flutter of oh, I get to help you! was requited by some acknowledgment.  So much gets lost to the sands.  So much just has to happen to chain into other things. Mostly because I laminated three sheets of paper did I get this good reference.  And on the same day, a thank you note with a card for coffee for the things that were nominally difficult over the summer, things I act as though were mentioned here, but I didn’t write about them so they’re just in my head.  The thank you note, of course, is all about how good I am and how appreciated the things I did were.  I blink as I read it.  I just did what was asked.  It had to be done.  It wasn’t special.  But it’s nice that you noticed.  It’s nice that my ability to work meant an increase in your efficiency.   It *is* nice.  But nice is all it is.

In this moment, the words of support feel like they are about the woman that does and not the one that is.  That I might be faceless, but I can fill the seat.  I can bear the yoke.  I can recall, mostly,

I think about dear J and the strange place, the Limbo in which we exist.  I used to think we were in Limbo together, but now it feels much more true to say that we have adjoining Limbos that meet sometimes in a message, and less frequently than the fevered pitch of summers past, in a call.  We both seem to realize at different points and with different senses of urgency, about the mismatch of it all.  It isn’t, as it seemed once, just a logistical challenge.  It’s his anxiety versus my anxiety.

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