Business and Fools

There's no business like show business, and there's no fool like an old fool. That's what I was thinking of when I made my list, and then I forgot while the list was being made. I couldn't say why I thought this though.

The end is nigh, the end is nigh, the end is nighhhhh...fa la la la.

Dreams and dramas. I had another dream, and in this one, there were not very nice things happening again. This one was to do with missing points, sharp things flying my way, and stainless steel trays with little molotov cocktails on them being spun around on sharp fingernails. In other words, many a flying, moving, agitated sharply trouble object heading my way. Of course it was heading my way - dreams, after all are about one, aren't they?

Then I heard about the dream that CT had. "There was a hedgehog," he said, and immediately you were launched into Beatrix potter land, "and the hedgehog was on a tree trunk, speaking to me, he was telling me about about the father's day gifts he had bought for his father". CT then continued speaking in a pinched, somewhat soft but thorny voice, "The hedgehog said, '...and I eschewed the organic walnuts and almonds for my father..." but before the sentence could be completed, the poor little hedgehog threw up. And CT turned to the lady (possibly Beatrix herself?), and asked whether the poor puking his guts up hedgehog was hers, and she said, "nnnoooooo!"

See? Why can't I have gentle Beatrix Potter dreams like that instead of imagining sharp, tipped with nasty poisons, ninja stars having at my torn and fragile flesh? Why indeed? Possibly because my inner soul is just plain mean.

So the end has come, and gone. A bit anti-climactic in the end as always. Friday morning came, the documents came in with minor changes (really, at that point in time, anything more than 'minor' would have received short shrift) and  I made said minor changes and it was done. The rain continued pouring and I hopped it on my bike  to wash myself clean and slept for a few hours before meeting CT to take in the news that Mother Theresa was dead and to hear for ourselves, the varied accents that England has to offer.

Some point later, as the rain kept pouring down, and I was fully and truly in the throes of the PABs (Post Application Blues), and took some good advice from Agatha Christie's mother - who told Agatha, after she'd cried for a day because her canary had flown the coop, but then returned - "You see, Agatha, what a waste, what a waste of tears - NEVER cry for anything until you're sure!"

Excellent advice yes?

The PABs are a strange creature to bear. They sit on your shoulder and nestle into your chest, and suck all energy from you. Even so, they're just about bearable on their own, but when you throw the PABs in with a good mixture of sleep deprivation (see dreams above), fatigue, over-taxed brain cells, and torrential downpours that threaten to never end, it's quite dreadful.

At times like this one must remember that others could easily be in more dire straits than you (and they were),  that one must separate the narrative from any attendant drama, to not cry until you're absolutely sure ("What a waste Agatha! What a waste!").

Perhaps that was whwy when CT said that he's very emotional, I replied quite firmly that I simply 'didn't do' emotion, and he guffawed, and later when Dr. C heard about this, he said, very politely in very academic words, that I was full of shit bird poo. And bird poo - I must get a plastic model of the red-tailed falcon and scare the bejeebers out of the seagulls what are roosting on my roof.

Saturday was a continuation of Friday and I elected not to park for the morning, organised, run. Instead, I met RP and went for a run up QE park instead and wallowed in mud - better than wallowing in self-pity and the PABs ("Such a waste, etc etc - except that I likely won't know until August but I'm already pretty certain of the result, so may as well get the tears out of the way now).

As I said to DWA today, "So much rejection happens in my life, why do I set myself up for more?" If you want to help with this, then please vote the Science Hating Harper Government out in the next election.

At some point during Saturday, RP texted me in despair, saying "F....rain - when will this stop?", and I said, "June 15th", whereupon he wailed, and so I sent a quick note to the SOCK to get a professional opinion,  and the professional SOCK was terse in his reply: "Tomorrow". RP, not being satisfied, wanted to know, how long for. Another flurry of e-mails, and the reply came back, "Two days", whereupon the wailing began again - and that was then I saw the wisdom of Agatha's mother, when she said to not cry until one was sure so as to not waste tears.

Fortunately, I had a dreamless night and slept for 12 hours on Saturday night and woke up to a brilliantly sunny Sunday which went in a flash with a good, well-paced run but not so well timed coffee with RE, a run in with another brain-dead investigator going through the PABs, a quick lunch, a Kauai planning meeting, then bowling where I took one for the team (egos are so easily bruised in groups, I find) and dinner where fortunately one didn't order the bland soup or one would have been embroiled in great controversy. Then a smart drive home because I didn't feel like taking transit, and all of a sudden, there was no time to meet Dr. C for his last event of the weekend, a quick movie to finish off the day.

My favourite phrase of the weekend which bubbled out of nowhere: "...an entire line of arbutus trees, in various states of undress..."

So where does this all leave me? Damn if I know. I'm still tired, there are residual PABs percolating, and I must kill those off because the third application starts to loom. Oh dear. Oh dear.

Be that as it may, there's no point crying until I'm sure. I wonder whether that advice is exclusive to tears, or whether it can be applied to other things? What do you think DWA? Does one have to be  sure before one does something? Perhaps you'd really better come run on Wednesday to see whether JB has a new marketing scheme in place or not. But maybe best not to know.

The narrative: These are uncertain times for two aspects of life; the third is solid footing.
The drama: Making a big deal of the potential differences between what I would like to happen (some modicum of control), and what will happen (no control over this).

So perhaps it comes down to how important control is - and on that note, I will go be hectored and contorted by Mike. The rules and directions, the twists and corrections indeed. They do indeed take tolls on the highs, [but] we still strive 'til we die.

Right, I sense too that drama is not a particularly strong characteristic, and so perhaps I should rephrase  what I said to CT, and say instead that "I don't do drama".

Now do you find this posts less cryptic little DWA?