“The monotony of life,” a phrase found somewhere in a Buddhist book years ago, has taken me years to fully come to terms with.  At the time, I was puzzled and, unaccountably, offended by it.  As it turns out, at the beginning of my 57th year, it seems to me that life essentially does come down to rote at some point–fish on Monday, burgers on Tuesday; accept a promotion, decline a promotion; go to work every day; go to sleep at the same time every night; think essentially the same thoughts over and over.  It’s tedious and sometimes an enormous chore to get up each morning, knowing how each day will plod along.  How I will plod along through it.

Every day, I remember to be grateful for the gift of mockingbirds bathing in a sprinkler, for a soulless job that I do not want but that many others would, for the generosity of spirit in others.  Somehow it’s not enough to counteract the ennui that wraps me in a kind of straitjacket.  The monotony of life….

It seems there should be some kind of escape, though I reject the au courant popular concept of a “bucket list.”  Popular culture may have a list, but the idea of a series of special events that one dreams of accomplishing before checking out seems a little pathetic to me.  As if the recognition that I inhabit an endless haze of infinite boredom is somehow intellectually superior, a more courageous and harder look at this dream we inhabit.

Even these words I’ve just written, these thoughts, are old and familiar to me now.  They’re rote concepts, made more exotic by the incisive commentary I offer here.  I define myself by them.  Yes, I see more clearly than others; I’m brutally frank with  myself about the sheer pointlessness of my existence.  How like me to believe it, how like I have always been.

Where to end this?  Ah…the monotony of life.

Now I’m with the State. Craziness in a new form. Perfect examples:

We’re an entrepreneurial organization. (Yes, I work for the State. Don’t ask.)

Unable to meet your performance standards? I think you signed the document when you were hired, right? Well then, you agreed to me.

That’s the way we’ve always done it. (See entrepreneurial comment above.)

As I said before, things can always get worse.

The manager over the department in which I work has now had four grievances filed against her.  My good friend, the attorney, was the culprit.  I don’t know the details of the grievances, but I do know she’s making no attempt to fight her megolamaniac tendencies.  She knows all, she has her stubby fingers in all.

My immediate supervisor was just promoted over a woman who’s had experience supervising every unit this job would manage.  My supervisor is in her forties, the other woman is probably in her sixties.  Were I the older one, I’d have been in touch with an attorney the second I heard the news of the selection.  Guess who picked.  That’s right, the stubby-fingered Grand Poohbah.

Meanwhile, I have something growing in my brain.  We found it months ago and now I get an mri every three months.  Fortunately, I’m so beaten down generally that I’m unable to work up much anxiety about it.  Oddly enough, I no longer feel anything about breast cancer developments.  I do as they tell me.

It’s been so long since I’ve been here regularly that I’ve forgotten how to add a picture.  Must get around to that.

So Crazy Land is over a year away now.  My conversations about work are considerably less interesting than they used to be.  I’m now a worker drone for the State and, despite what everyone thinks, it’s demanding in its own weird way.  My area is particularly hard-pressed right now and I’ve only been in this job for a month.  I’m an HR Specialist, not that means anything to anyone.  I started here as a temp last June and got this permanent gig after an unofficial try-out.

The temp job was demoralizing, depressing and, frankly, could probably have been done by someone with rudimentary intelligence.  I spent every last bit of my time every day either filing, alphabetizing or putting together new hire packets.  Within a month or so, when nothing more demanding appeared on the horizon, I knew it wasn’t going to be a sucessful long-term career move. 

The big question is, does anybody here actually read applications?  I don’t mean to complain too much, because at least I had a job when so many others would have taken it and been truly grateful.  However, neither my temp supervisor or my new, improved permanent supervisor seem to have any inkling that I worked in the private sector and, that at one point, I was responsible for the day-to-day management of a company.  I’m baffled.  But then, having spent years in Crazy Land, this is not a new experience for me.

I spend half of my lunch time meditating and, unfortunately, the time has come for me to sit in a conference room and simply be for 20 minutes.  And I have so much to tell….not the least of which is the great story of how I left my post.  The trouble that rained down on me is still a topic of conversation amongst my co-workers. 

Hang on, there’s more to come.  It’s nice to be back.

If this is my old friend, Stephanie, I would definitely like to share my thoughts with you, so get back to me if you’re the one.

Thanks to my old friend, Tom Turner, I decided to try to post during my lunch hour at my new, improved (if wildly less amusing) job.  I’ve missed posting to my blogs and missed comments from my old friends.  When I don’t have time to write, I lose that sense of myself as an individual, separate from family, friends and work.  So here I am.

The latest drama is that we found a spot in my brain, second mri showed the spot had gotten bigger and brighter.  The day I was supposed to start radiation, we did yet another mir, that didn’t show anything.  Everyone asks if I’m thrilled.  Oddly, I’m not.  My mom believes–and I suspect she’s correct–that I don’t quite believe that I’m out of the woods.  Seems right, anyway.  The fourth mri is scheduled for April.

I contine to develop my close personal relationship with large, intimidating machines.  Encounters with my personal mri machines fill me with dread.  It’s not a question of pain.  It’s the sheer aloneness of the experience.  No one is in the room with me.  Ever.  It’s just me and the machine.  Maybe this is a feeling that no one who hasn’t had lots of experience with medical machines can understand.

I’m never been so much frightened by the prospect of dying as the prospect of another round of aggressive chemotherapy.  I’ve told all my loved ones repeatedly that I don’t think I’m up for any more, no matter the consequences.  When that prospect arose, I had mixed feelings.  Which would be worse, the suffering before dying if I chose not to treat or the suffering of treatment?  Then there’s the issue of putting my family and friends through the pain of watching the suffering of dying and, of course, my eventual absence from their lives.  To whom do I owe the greater responsibility?  Perhaps it’s a question I won’t have to answer just yet.

So there we are, for now.  More about the new job, how the old job ended and whatever else crosses my mind–all coming soon. 

Again, thanks, Tom Turner, for checking in on me.  You’re the best!

Mr. Moneybags is staying without a pay cut. Mr. Moneybags’ children are also staying. Incompetent IT Boy will continue to not be able to fix the computers. Mr. Moneybags will continue to provide incorrect financial data to Owner.

Wow. What great management decisions. Of course, how could it be Crazy Land if pragmatic, rational decisions were made?

Am I angry? Well, yes. Am I hurt? Very. My work for the company has gone unappreciated. There’s an Arab (I think) proverb that applies to Owner here. “You can get what you want but then you have to pay for it.” Paying for it will begin as of next Friday. I was scheduled for vacation the following week. Anything they get from me will be completed by then. Let’s see. What can I complete? I’m going to be busy continuing to look for a job. I don’t think they’re getting anything from me.

As for my database work, I won’t sabotage. I am far more ethical than my soon-to-be former co-workers. However, any assistance they receive in the future will be billed at the standard market rate. Ching ching. When the phone rings, the billing clock will start ticking. Other than me, no one knows how to do anything with the database.

This will ultimately be a good thing for me. I’ve been resentful and enraged for years. My refuge has been humor. There’s been plenty to laugh about. Too bad I won’t be around to see the hilarious consequences of my departure.

“Lean into the hard places.” Words to live by; I’ve been given an opportunity to be a spiritual warrior. That’s what the quote really means. You know I’ll embrace the opportunity. It’s a great gift to be called to live your faith.

I’m a survivor. No matter what happens to me, I will cope with it. That’s more than most of the Crazy Land folks can say. Today I hope that misery abounds with virtually all of them. That’s unworthy of me and I’ll let go of that, too, very soon.  There’s no reason to hope, anyway.  Misery will indeed abound, just as it does now.

Finally, my favorite quote from Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of things shall be well.” Amen.