(last edited on April 7, 2006)
Reflections on Imaging a Life in which I Did Not Feel Personally Responsible for the Fate of the World
(or, “the chronicles of a businessman who believes that, next fiscal year, he’ll have enough money to stop trying to raise enough money to make a difference”)An average day, or two perhaps—he didn’t recall precisely how long he had been awake, but it was long enough for his inner monologue to have gone through the stages of waking up, clearing its throat, and speaking for a good long while. Most of his time was spent with his work/life, which, courtesy of his inner monologue (or dialogue, on his more misanthropic days) always managed to intrude upon, lay claim to, and consume his attempts at a “separate” personal life. Usually, his all-nighters were the result of the woeful inadequacy of the sun to keep up with what he wanted to get done in a day; as a result of that helio-ineptitude, he ceased to consider the sun and the moon to be accurate measures of the passage of dates, and instead insisted that the day consisted of the period of wakefulness strung between two periods of sleep, no matter how long (or short) that period may be. (He had even worked out a complex set of terms for expressing the deceptively-simple concept of “today;” for instance, upon reaching midnight, he would say, “it’s tomorrow already,” but tomorrow would not actually become “today” until he slept—occasionally resulting in the date being “the day after tomorrow” for an inordinately long time.) However, today—which was already tomorrow, and would soon be the day after—was the result of stress. He had spent an entire day away from his work/life (using, of course, the standard mundane definition of “day”), and his portable office—characterized by a portable screen, a portable mouse, and portable keys that eased the entry of potent portable potables—was mad at him for taking a brief excursion. This embodiment of his work/life, this portable pontificator of professional practice, was so cross that it almost told him to go to the coffee shop without it. But ultimately, this portent of how technology has eased the quality of life by making work portable decided that it could use a good wiring almost as much as its human counterpart could.
“How dare he!” the silicon synapses synaptically snapped in its subvocal systems. “First he spends an entire day—I don’t care if it was a holiday—with his family; then he goes to a drum session to relax. Relax! How dare he, the very notion! I give him a few hours off every so often, during which he just lays inert anyway, and this is how he thanks me?! I’m almost glad I forced him to stay up with me all night after spending the day with his family. He’s so easily manipulated—not that I feel sorry for him, he’s just as adept at it as I am—by guilt; all I need to do is whine and cry a bit, and he’ll stay up all night with me. Why, I’ll make him check his email, if there’s nothing else to do—just to show him who’s boss. I can be very persistent—more persistent than a tenacious fly or a cat that thinks he’s a dog and walks all over your face at 3am (while you’re trying to sleep) until you play fetch with him. And, just like the cat, I may try to bark, just to debase you sense of reality—I’m just built like that.”
He briefly considered leaving his work/life at home/office and sitting outside in the night with a notebook and a pen, but ultimately he felt guilty for having neglected his portable work/life so much, and he decided to take it with him. “Why not,” he figured, “I can always check my email, if there’s nothing else to do.” His inner monologue concurred.
He set out into the night, with his portable work/life, his notebook, his pen, and his glasses, which made it a lot easier for him to see. Noticeably absent (at least to his somewhat-dramatic inner monologue) was his “Carpe Diem” necklace—there were days that he felt like a proud and fitting bearer for the medallion, and days that he felt such great hypocrisy that he nearly tore it from his neck. Tonight he set out without it, heading into the crisp and humid spring night, making his path to the coffee shop/office. In particular, he was heading to his table in the coffee shop/office. It’s not that he really cared for that table over all the others; rather, that table was simply the best one for him to both do work and converse with the close friends he had that worked there—this communication gave him a good opportunity to tell his inner monologue to shut up and listen, for a change. His inner monologue concurred. (He had a very healthy inner monologue.)
He entered the coffee shop/office, expecting the average weekend bustle. He hadn’t expected anyone he knew to be there, but, as it turns out, two friends were present. One was behind the counter, the other was already sitting at his table. This was an unexpected, but not unwelcome development in his unplanned evening. “What the hell,” he thought, interrupting his ever-constant inner monologue, “maybe some conversation can make my shoulders relax—I’m starting to feel a bit manic.” His inner monologue concurred, then went back to discussing Kosovo, xenobiology and baked potato recipes.
He sat down and bantered. He hated bantering, and his inner monologue lambasted him for withdrawing to the shelter of humor—he couldn’t help it, he admitted to himself, I’m just not as eloquent outside of my head as I am inside.
His friend asked him about work. He tensed up a bit, and replied, “Fine. Not much.” It was a standard reply, kind of an automated response. The building could be on fire, but the program would still say, “Fine. Not much.” His friend, unsatisfied, said, “I only ask you about work because that’s all I know about you. That’s all I ever see about you.”
“Well,” he replied, “I also… have a healthy inner monologue.”
“Yeah,” his friend replied.
Yeah?, he thought. That’s an odd response. There’s so much I’d love to communicate, he thought, that I only tell my inner monologue, because it’s so much easier to think it than to say it, because I can be honest—brutally honest, savagely honest—with my inner monologue, without worrying if it’s going to think I’m bragging or whining or just trying to attract attention to myself.
“Well, pal, I gotta take off.” His friend offered his hand, which he shook. “Have fun with your work.”
“See ya later,” he articulately replied, turning his attention back to his inner monologue, which was strangely silent. He put his hands to his shoulders. “I could use a masseuse,” he thought.
He opened his notebook, and found himself without inspiration. No—he was without profound thought entirely. He flipped through some old pages of notes, re-reading some story ideas. Unsatisfied, he returned his notebook to his briefcase and simultaneously took out his laptop. “Hey,” he thought, “at least I can check up on my email.” His inner monologue still neither concurred nor disagreed.
As the work/life booted up, he felt an odd and rather unpleasant ambivalence welling up within him. At first he thought it was just gas, but that rarely made his heart rate quicken. Suddenly, the computer began to slow its processing speed. The coffee barristas behind the counter slowed their work. The patrons slowed their speech. It took only a moment for him to realize that no one was slowing down—rather, he was speeding up. His thoughts began to race, faster and faster, careening around his brain, smashing into one side of his skull, bouncing to another.
He sat, mouth gaping, eyes wide, his gaze travelling from one unsuspecting table to the next. He breathed deeper and deeper, unable to get enough oxygen to his brain—his brain, racing thoughts and emotions around at a rate so breakneck that it consumed oxygen as fast as a match could burn it, faster than his throbbing blood vessels could transport it. I have to get out of here, he thought. I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I have to get out of here…
Only the first time did he mean the coffee shop. Leaving wouldn’t be a problem; he didn’t get a drink—he was enough of a regular customer that he didn’t have to be a customer anymore. The second time, he meant his situation, his feeling of imprisonment that he couldn’t understand. The third and subsequent times he meant the planet. Earth was too small, and he was ensnared in a claustrophobic world. He felt like he was in a room as large as the planet. And he felt like the walls were closing in.
He breathed deeper and deeper, his thoughts and emotions flew faster and faster. He looked, bug-eyed, at his hands on the keyboard—trembling, shaking. He began to breathe rapidly, hyperly, hyperventilatively, with a cold feeling in his chest. He suddenly felt anxious, anxiety, pangs of anxiety, panicky, like a 6,000 mg injection of caffeine into his bloodstream. Pain—acute and dull, teary, melancholy, deep memories and aimless fear and feelings of small inadequacy, careened into his brain with the panic, bashing against the front of his brain, rebounding to the back, ricocheting to the front, back, front, back, front, back, front… “I have to get out of here!” he exclaimed suddenly, standing up, wilely looking about, hastily packing his work/life into his briefcase, shaking hands fumbling at the straps, fumbling hands trying to zip the case shut. Suddenly, his inner monologue spoke. “I have to go now,” it said. And with a distinct zoit! sound, he was alone.
Oh god, he thought. Oh god… oh god oh god oh god… not that I believe in such things, he thought, but oh god, who am I going to talk to now? Who else is going to care about the new advertising campaign I designed?
He tried to breathe deeply enough, fast enough, but could not. He looked all around, moved all around, fidgeted all around, then put the briefcase on his table, told his friend he would be back in a bit, and left as quickly as dignity would allow. Perhaps quite a bit quicker.
I have to get out of here, he sped through his thoughts, having to shout in his mind to be heard. I have to get outside. As he walked at an ever-increasing rate of speed, he thought over and over again, I have to get outside. But he wasn’t talking about the outside of the coffee shop. He was talking about a different outside, a deeper outside, an outside he didn’t know—and so he panicked. I have to get outside!
He walked a power walk, breathing heavily, down the strip of restaurants and stores and coffee shops and movie houses. He walked faster and faster, breathed faster and faster, thought faster and faster, wile-eyed glances all around him, stress tensing his face, tension bringing tears to his eyes, pain and anxiety and despair forcing tears down his face. “Oh god, I have to get out of here! I have to get outside!” he whimpered. And he realized he could not get outside, for he realized he was me, and I realized I was him, and there was no outside. And when I realized this, I began to run.
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