Don't Write March...

I feel like this should be a "music free" post, but I'm also in the middle of a nostalgia-dive on YouTube so have a belated "Vale Peter Steele": Type O Negative - I Don't Wanna Be Me 

I'm tired. 
And sick. 
Sick and tired, in fact. 

The cost of doing business... took a lot out of me. For most of January I was convinced I'd never finish it and just wanted to purge the lot, but whether through deadheaded determination, or belligerent bloody-mindedness, I got there in the end and... I'm actually fucking proud of what I created. 

It says what I wanted to say, and more besides, with both depth and nuance that I've spent the last couple of years practicing how to deliver. In conversation recently, Ian described the way I write as "meaning-dense", his way of acknowledging how much meaning I try to load into a sentence by way of reference and repetition. Scott mirrored that sentiment beautifully, in his own way, when he told me "it's obvious how carefully and intentionally you pick each word to say all the things you want them to mean." 

It's so nice to be 'seen', isn't it? 

But... this used to be fun, and it's not any more. It used to be an escape, and now I feel trapped by it. What used to bring me joy (which is something you can share the taste of, and is indescribably more valuable to me than pride which no one can really stomach when it's anyone else's) has gone a long way past the point where it started to hurt (and in doing throws into sharp relief how well correlated "the things I'm proud of" are with "the things which hurt me to do" in my personal history). Now I'm somewhere in a zone where (all the session-drinking and chain-smoking I do to keep me) doing this is causing me actual damage. 

A week ago I closed the tabs I've had open to this site for the first time since I moved back to Canberra, and spent the time (between then and shortly before I started writing this) both sober and nicotine-free. I've decided that I'm going to spend the month of March not writing (much). I've long-since gone past the point where I'm "on" edge to the one where I'm on the verge of being "over it", so I decided to take a break before I do. 

Or more than I already have. 

Today I found myself winding up a punch I almost didn't throw and while it didn't connect, that moment (which I'm far from being proud of) was connected to more than a thousand words could graph. It might not be enough to Save Me, but the only way I know to start means that first I need to Stop; 

The cost of doing business... (Part III: Aphelion)

I want to use 3 Doors Down, but you know it's Enter Shikari all the way down... 

Enter Shikari - Redshift

Have you noticed that everything I say goes around in circles? Just like everything around us,
Drawn together by chance or circumstance, revolving; 
Ships in the night falling into and flying out of each other's orbit.
Points of light, dancing amongst the stars. 
Repeat after me... 

It's said that you can't cross the same river twice. The silt you kick up and the ripples you cause change it forever; it can never be the same again. Likewise, the you who crosses the next time around isn't the same person, they just remember being the person who did it the time before. 
The name of the river might be the same but the river itself has been changed by your passing, and so have you. 

Names are important; they help us to identify one person from another in the stories we tell. Our names can be the shape we pour ourselves into, or the one that grows around us as we reach our final form. Laika tipped her hat to her Russian heritage, and adopted The First Dog In Space when she declared her old name dead and buried. Jason was given a good, strong name, which he never saw the point of changing because it suited him just fine, and me... I have a name I chose to adopt because, in part, of all the people who refused to call me by anything else. Some people are born to a name, some have a name thrust upon them, and who am I to deny the wisdom of crowds when the one they formed around me fits so well? 

In Pete's Apocryphal Pocket Dictionary there's a girl with an angelic smile you might have glimpsed when you were flicking past the letter A. I never did find out what name her Persian parents gave her; I called her خواهر کوچک, but she introduced herself as Anna V----, and that was how I greeted her the day she called me at my desk to ask for some information about [Civil Construction Client]'s servers. 

"What's it say in the doco?" 
"There isn't any, that's why I called."
"Oh?" I replied innocently, but with an escalating growl, "are you sure about that?" 
"..." 
"Remember who you're talking to here. 
"Were you not able to find it, or did you just assume?" 
"Oh shoot. 
"I'm sorry, I didn't think.
"I should have checked." 

Not gonna lie, that sort of honesty buys you a metric-fuckton of my time. 

"I just looked and it's right there.
"I'm so used to [Allied Health Client]'s KB, it's so out of date. 
"I'm SO SORRY!" 
"I'll let you off," I said, because kicking puppies is the antithesis of my idea of a good time, "but it's going to cost you. 
"Your penance will be getting [Allied Health Client]'s server pages up to the same level of detail as [Civil Construction Client]'s." 
"... Oh fiddlesticks." 
"Have fun! Let me know if you need a hand..." 

Anna was a ray of sunshine sat in the middle of the Service Desk, who somehow made the whole crew better just by being there, so when Rowan and I lit our respective rockets and blasted off in pursuit of our respective launch-windows we broke the gender-parity we'd achieved in the team and filled the vacuum we left by promoting her to Lead the Team who had come to revolve around her. 

Time passed. 
My mentor Row'd his boat into deeper waters. 
Boldilocks and Michael bounced over the fence into greener pastures, and Anna was headhunted to build the Service Desk for a competitor, because Service Desk is an incubator where IT professional careers are laid, not where they hatch; attrition and churn are a fact of life. 

When I was made redundant a couple of years later I'd trained up Jake to take my place, and served out my notice period winding things up with [Civil Construction Client]. I worked it all the way through to the end, and had just hung up from TNM after apologising for running out of steam on my last day when my phone rang again, this time with Anna's name on the screen. 

She'd heard through the grapevine that the chapter of my story she'd been a part of was coming to an end after all those years, so called to check in and hear me tell it. 
She didn't call to offer help, but was there to give it if I asked. 
She knew I wasn't short on friends; she wanted me to know that she'd be one if she could, whether I needed it or not. 

So we talked about what had happened, and my plans for what what I was going to do next, and she offered to put me in touch with some people who could use a freelancer to help with their clients in Perth. The grapevine works both ways tho, and I'd heard how she'd not been well, so I asked. 

I was prepared for the ovarian cancer diagnosis she told me about, and the less-than-positive prognosis she'd been given; it was the absolute absence of self-pity and -abnegation in her voice that left me on my knees on the side of William St when I hung up the phone. 

"Man, it's like you're Wonder Woman or something," I mused, "you're not going to let anything stop you, are you?"
"Would you?" she asked, "I learned from the best." 

Looking at the blank screen of my phone, I picked myself up, finished my day, and handed my laptop and other corporate accoutrement over to Jake before dragging him out for drinks with a bunch of my other friends. 

Anna and I kept in touch, and true to her word I picked up many billable hours to invoice her contacts for. Months went by with the memory of that conversation bouncing around between the bones of my head, and an idea formed which led to (an actual) pen clumsily meeting (actual) paper, which I tied closed with a ribbon and sealed with an enamel pin I found on eBay: 

خواهر کوچک

There's not a lot of people in this world I really like, and even fewer who I respect. 
You've always been one of the few who was both. 
As I got to know you, you became one of the rarest people in my life. 
Those I've found truly inspiring. 
I wanted to send you something you could carry with you as a reminder of how wonderful you are, and what a powerful impact you have on the people who cross your path, 
and that the world has been a better place with you in it. 

.صلح

Peter Raven

In the photo I took the last time I laid eyes on her in August 2019, Anna is sat to the left of the group because she'd arrived late and needed to leave early; chemo doesn't leave you with the energy to do much, but when I came to town and got Yael, Boldilocks, Gabe, Chris (and his adorable daughters), and Michael from her old team together, she spent what she had to come and see us: 

Six months before her journey ended, three months before that photo was taken, I sent her a 'heartbeat check' message whilst on another work-trip to Melbourne, and worked out that a meeting I had scheduled in Box Hill would be finishing up around the same time as her chemo appointment across the road that day, so I did what any good Agile-minded Project Manager would do: 

I managed expectations, adjusted commitments, made apologies where necessary, and ditched the client to make time in my schedule to be waiting for her in the plaza outside Box Hill Train Station afterwards. When she joined me I was sitting cross-legged on a concrete bench in the shade wearing my royal-blue suit, and she was wearing the Wonder Woman pin I'd sent on the strap of her satchel. 

She sat down in the vacant space I'd left for her, and asked me how I was. 

"Oh, you know, building stuff, fixing shit, surrounded by incompetent fucktards, doing what I can to make things better..." 
"The usual then." 
"Pretty much, yeah." 
"You'll get it sorted out, you always do. You're so good at it." 
"I guess," I replied, taking an embarrassed drag at my cigarette, "what else can I do? How about you?"
"Oh, you know; it is what it is. One day at a time, spending what I have with my husband and son, what else can I do? 
"But," she said, looking at me critically, "are you OK, really? 
"You look so tired, are you getting enough sleep?" 
"4 or 5 hours a night, I make do." 
"You really do need to take better care of yourself," she chiled me, her sternly maternal tone belied by the smile creeping across her face, "it's not like you let anyone do it for you." 
"..."

Completing its transit, Anna's smile lit up Main St so bright it darkened the sun as she affectionately patted my arm.

"You're not Superman, you know?" 

... 

She was wearing that cheap memento mori again at what would turn out to be our last meeting. She said not a word about it, but when she arrived it caught my eye, and she caught my look, and her smile met mine in the middle. If you look closely at the grainy photo I took on my phone that day you can see it right were everyone could see, but no one else was going to notice: 

One last parting gift, as if her presence wasn't enough. 

Now, years later, I find myself sitting here, wondering. 

Because whilst I can tally up everything I've spent, and all the things I've given, the support I've received from the Laika's and Jason's and Gabe's and Boldilock's and Michael's and Anna's has been immeasurable; if I can't even count what I've received, can what it cost me count for anything? If I could say, with a straight face, that I've given everything, it would imply that at one point or another I'd had everything to give. Somehow now matter how much I give nothing is taken, yet returns threefold.  No matter how much of myself I give away, I always have more coming back at me; my cup runneth over, and what I have left afterwards is better than I was before. 

How could I possibly ask for more? 

I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 
I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 
I am not immune to Newton's Third Law. 

The cost of doing business... (Part II: Transit)

Somehow I just can't seem to get enough of: Enter Shikari - Pack of Thieves

Have you been listening or just watching the scene unfold, waiting for me to get to the point? 
The lede is buried between the lines; 
I could point it out but you'll learn better if you go find it yourself.
Don't worry, I'll wait.
I've got all the time in the world. 

Is it weird that I'm more avuncularly inclined towards my Padawans than I am to the memory of Younger Pete? It must seem unfair to hold them to a lesser standard, but I swear I don't; The Best Pete is the benchmark I hold myself to, and 99 times out of 10 (Ian notwithstanding; he'll always be the Paragon-ideal I know my Renegade-self can never achieve) that guy is the North Star I try to point people towards (because whilst Ian'ing is a virtue, the rest of us are only human). I won't pretend to meeting that standard myself, but he's the Ideal I'm always trying to be, the light shining tantalisingly over the hill I know I'll one day die on whilst it hangs perpetually out of reach. When I meet someone who wants to be The Best Them he's the example I offer them because (no one can be as Good as Ian, and who am I to give people a goal I know is unachievable; I'm not The Buddha, I'm just A Boy Who's Lost, just like the rest of you) the The Best Me I Can Be is easy to compare to the Me they can see. So don't mistake me for suggesting that being The Best Them looks anything like The Best Pete (let alone Ian); I've only managed to look like that guy on a hand-full of occasions, and even then it's only when you tilt your head 42 degrees and squint, but he's the mould I'm trying to shape myself into because he's the best I've got to be. I barely wanna be me, so why the fuck would I want that for anyone else? Making more of me would just give me another face I want to punch, and if there's a single more self-defeating idea than that I sure can't think of any. 

I've got no time for anyone who wants to be me, even The Best Me, but when someone wants to be The Best Them they can be... 
I've got all the time in the world. 

I still remember my first real Padawan like it was yesterday, but that isn't a stretch; I saw him a couple of months ago in Perth. If you look up "responsible young man" in Pete's Pocket Dictionary you'll find yourself peering at a photo of Jason U------- looking back with an expression somewhere between "respectfully attentive" and "if you gave the order I'd crawl on my belly through broken glass with my fly unzipped, sir". When he spotted my Facebook post saying I was visiting again he reached out to see if I had time for him to catch me up on what he's been going through, so I made damn-sure I found some. When I first laid eyes on him a decade-and-change ago he was a quiet, timid, unassuming little lamb wrapped in 6 feet of gym-junkie beefcake who seemed afraid to take up space. Over the years I've watched as he replaced timidity with self-assurance, and the humble lion who picked me up from Mother Dear's house had filled every one of those 72 inches with 'himself' in the best possible way. 

His life has gone to shit over the last year or so but that's not my story to tell, it's just the one he wanted to tell me. 
So I listened, and we talked, and there was fuck-all I could to to help, but he knew I'd get it. 
He thinks of me as a friend, and thought I'd like to know, and whether I could help or not was completely irrelevant; he doesn't need me to, but he knows that I would if I could. 

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of "leadership" lately. I could blame Ian, and I will regardless of how apropos for comic-effect, but he'd be the first to point out (if he were the sort to disagree, and not stop and first hear out your point of view, then question the evidence upon which you based your analysis later) that Leadership was one of the majors printed on the MBA that's been hanging on my wall since long before the conversations we've had since he started on his. 

There are a pile of different perspectives on what it is to lead, and how to do it best, from 'despotic' to 'transactional', all the way through to 'transformational'. In a more avant-garde (and less peer-reviewed)  mindset, Ian is fond of 'poetic' (there's only one article I've seen on the concept; he linked it to me when he was researching his assignment), whereas I favour 'transgressive' (for which there are none I can find; I haven't written one yet). He'll point to Napoleon and Patton, whereas I'll veer towards Churchill and Rommel. Ultimately, there are three (3) archetypes you can play that have been shown to work depending on your mindset and circumstance: 

1) "I'm going this away,"; 
2) "You're going that way,"; and the one I favour
3) "We're going over there. Get onboard or make your own way, but I'll see you there or I won't."

I'm not sure if that's what Gabe S------ was looking for when she pinged me a month-and-change ago asking for advice. Beyond the occasional "I'll be in Melbourne, drinking in [this] pub if you're free after work that day," I hadn't heard from her in any meaningful way in years, then out of nowhere my phone pinged with a Message that knocked me out of my chair: 

"Hey
I was just laying here thinking how far I've come in IT
I have my first solution architecture job, which i landed by shear luck and clients loving me.

After this one I will be contracting as a solutions architect not as high as my mum but it makes me so close.

Wanted say thanks for all the training you gave me at beginning"
- 18/11/2024, 17:03

Gabe's mum was the Rockstar Solution Architect who'd been engaged on the Citrix VDI project the Company I Used To Work For was delivering for one of our clients, with a formidable rep, and a form 17 pages long. The project went to shit, but it wasn't mine to manage, or my client who dumped us as a result of our Tech Lead's incompetence, so I won't pretend I give a fuck. That hadn't happened yet when I was in Melbourne for my annual Work "Non-Denominational End of Year Celebration" Pilgrimage and Rowan grabbed me to see if I was free to jump in on an interview panel to play the Voice of Tech. When I was hired I had to go three rounds against an autistic savant from Melbourne who was driving between sites in Sydney with the GPS calling directions in the background. He was a little distracted, but did not in any way go easy on me. I found out later that he was more-than-a-little impressed, but at the time I was surprised when I progressed to the final bossfight. 

Now here I was standing in his shoes. 

"We interviewing her on her own merits, or are we sucking up to her mum?" 
Rowan made a hand-wringing gesture and dissembled, "no of course not, she's junior but she's got some experience."
"So kid gloves, or...?"
"Be fair, but work out what level she's at." 
"Got it." 

An hour or so later I was refreshing my coffee when Row approached with an empty mug and That Look on his face: 

"Remind me to give you a better definition of 'fair' next time."
"What?? I smiled all reassuring'n'shit, didn't even show teeth."
"..." 
"I went easy on her; remind me to tell you how Ken and I made this South African guy, who drew his 9mm on four armed car-jackers and killed three of them, weep in his interview some time." 
"YOU FUCKING WHAT?" 
"Not important. 
"Back to Gabe... 
"She's terrified she's only here because of her mum, it was written all over her anxiety; I didn't want her thinking this was a courtesy-interview. 
"You said to find her level, and if someone answers right you keep asking harder questions until they can't. 
"She did well, solid basic knowledge, and when she didn't know the answer you could see she was freaking out, but she said as much, kept it together, and didn't break. 
"Cried less than Paul The Killer-Saffa, that's for sure." 
"Hmm..." 
"She doesn't have her visa riding on it, and her family's safety on the line, so different stress-factor. 
"Anyway, she's got potential. Gotta work on her confidence tho - reckon we can support her in that?" 
"You know we can." 
"Golden, because by the time she spins up I'll be back in Perth and it's you she'll look to on the daily, but if we give her the opportunity to get out of her mum's shadow on her own merits she'll be ours forever. 
"You want to seal that deal, make the offer in the next couple of days, up it by $5k, and invite her to the party on Saturday. She'll hit the ground running so hard she'll barely touch it."

A couple of weeks ago I received another message: 

"Well I applied for a senior/coordinator role
Not solution architect but will give me leadership and make it easier to get one later.

They are looking for someone to lead the service desk while they focus on growing the company
So essentially I'd be the manager of service desk

Got feed back saying I was great in interview
Think I'd be great fit and knowledgeable 

The people choosing has covid so won't find out till next week but sounds like I may have the job

Any advice on leadership?"
- 13/12/2024, 15:51

"Jeez...
"Where to start...
"I mean..." 

She's going to do great (whether I have anything to do with it or not). 

In my digital memory archive there's a photo of her sitting immediately to the left of Boldilocks in a pub somewhere near Richmond; their desks were only slightly further apart when they worked together. He still calls me 'sir', but that's just his way of making me feel better. We both know he transitioned into being a 'confidant', 'Pete's Support Potato', and 'well-spring of well-good Metalcore' a long time ago, to become one of my Secretaries. Never forget that a 'secretary' was never about being someone's shit-kicker, it's derived from 'secretarius' which is the latin word for 'confidential letter writer'. Boldilocks doesn't fetch my coffee and sit on my lap to take dictation in a short skirt (OK, he does, but let's set 'recreational' context apart from 'professional' here), he's a keeper of my secrets. You never stop being someone's Padawan tho, and he lets me maintain some of the illusion of self-worth I get from believing that. Just as I like to call him Mr Fantastic, that's just the sort of friend he is. 

Ian joined a WA Government Mentorship Programme at the beginning of 2023, and spent most of it working with a young lad who needed a LOT of help. At the end of what turned out to be something of a harrowing year he told me they'd gone out to an "expensive steak place" to put a full-stop at the end of that sentence, which the kid paid for by way of thanks. I replied: 

"Welcome to 'mentoring' and 'taking on Padawans'.
"It's soul-destroying effort, encouraging them, supporting them, dragging them back from the abyss, picking them up when they fall, rubbing their noses in it...
"but then they surprise you by actually learning, moving forward, getting their shit together, becoming the best-self you imagined they could be. 
"And if you think that's rewarding, imagine what it's like when you get your first Dark Apprentice."
 - 08/12/2023, 21:07

Mine (there've only ever been two) is in that same photo, sitting second-right, goes by Michael B--------, and there's no one on this planet I've fought as hard, or as often, who I'd still shout a pint for. You know that 'uppity smart-arse prick' who's convinced he knows better, wants to hear the justification for every direction, and argues every decision, because he's convinced he knows better? 
That's Michael's shit-eating grin you're looking at under 'U' in Pete's Pocket Dictionary. 

I can't remember who hired him, but it was probably Rowan; he hired me, and he could always smell his own. The New Management who took over after Rowan moved up-and-left had more of a "just do what you're told" mindset than Row's sense-making sensibility, and by the time I received a call asking me to "take him under my wing" they'd rubbed each other so far the wrong way there was enough static in the air to give everyone a bad hair-day. Thing was, Michael actually DID know better more often than not, he'd just been saddled with Managers who couldn't see the walls of the box they were living in, let along think outside of it, with whom he'd had to go to war to get anything done so often, and for so long, he came at every barrier put in front of him fist-first. 

Sound familiar? 

He was good at his job, which was the only reason he still had one, but TNM didn't have the energy or wherewithal to keep fighting for him to keep it. They didn't not-care tho, which is why they called me in to knock some sense into the guy when he fucked up for the penultimate time. I listened to their story, read up on the tickets, did a bit of outside-the-box homework, gave him a call, and offered him a different face to take a swing at. 

"So TNM asked me to look into the Incident at [Financial Services Client]."
"<sigh> Do I really have to go over this again? I fucked up, I'm sorry, I'll do better."
"No one here's saying that..."
"TNM is."
"...but they're not here, and you seem to be mistaking me for someone who gives a fuck. If I was going to take their word on it I wouldn't have wasted my time calling you, so can we skip past the bullshit before we get old?" 
"..."
"Client's pretty pissed off tho, so let's look at that instead, yeah? 
"Now TNM sent you out at 4PM to do this install?" 
"No..." 
"The client wanted it done at 4 then?" 
"No... I just got told it had to be done ASAP."
"But you called them and made sure they'd be there so you could get them logged in and set up, yeah? Then they weren't around when you got there?" 
"No..."
"Right... but you called next morning to remote in and finish it off? I'm not seeing that in the ticket notes, but it's the only thing which makes sense." 
"No, I mean, I left the login details..." 
"... and you checked FIRST THING the next morning to make sure they found the instructions, were up and running, yeah?" 
"No... I mean... it's not hard tho!" 
"For you or me it's not, but they're a Receptionist." 
"Who doesn't know shit!" 
"No, but knowing shit is what they pay *us* for, so why would they need to?" 
"..." 
"Sounds to me like you were playing for a protest-fail and half-arsed the job to make a point, shot yourself in the foot, and you've been blaming everyone else for limping. 
"Rookie move, man." 
"No! But, I mean... fuck..." 
"Now we're getting somewhere. 
"So are you going to work with me to unfuck this mess, or should I just go back to doing the job they actually fucking pay me for?" 

Putty doesn't mould as easily as Michael did after that... for a while anyway. Not much time had passed before he felt he'd learned enough kung fu, and came at me. 

So I beat him down again. 
And again. 
And again. 
And each time it got harder, because each time he'd got better, faster, and stronger. 

"I don't know why you kept putting up with that," one of my colleagues in the Leadership In Practice unit of my MBA said when I recounted this story. 
"He'd had so many Managers who didn't know shit acting like they knew better, but really didn't. He needed to know that I really did. Challenging The Master was how he tested himself, but it also proved I was worth listening to. He got harder to beat each time because he was *learning*." 
"But what if he learned everything you knew and took your job?" 
"If he gets good enough to take my job, he can have it; he'll have earned it."
"But..." 
"But what... you think I wasn't getting better at the same time? Everything he took away from me was one more thing I didn't have to do any more, and I got to pick up something else which moved me forward. 
"Everything he took was something I gave to him, and if I can't keep up, if he overtakes me... that's on me. I've no more right to stand in his way than Moses had to enter The Promised Land." 
"..." 
"You HAVE been paying attention in this course, haven't you?" 

He actually did thank me, just once, years later. I'd re-tell the conversation, but after the ridiculous number of pints he shouted me that night I honestly can't remember what it was he said. 
I can tell you he's kicking arse, tho. 
I'm pretty sure I could still beat him, although when I saw him back in April he let me maintain my illusion of self-worth by not making me prove it. 

What is a relationship after all, but a closed system;
Nothing taken that wasn't given freely
And returned in exchange, 
If not in kind;
Because the world can be anything but. 
But we can be if we choose. 

Concludes in Part III: Perihelion...

Remembrance Day...

Spiritual accompaniment: Twenty One Pilots - Backslide

 A year-and-change ago Bridget was familiarising herself with my blog, and I expressed to her the idea I'd had around taking the Deadman post I'd written many months before and re-writing it from the perspective of how "nice [it was] to wake up and throw my arm over someone who nuzzled me back." 

I'd made a start on it, but not got very far, when the year ended and I got distracted. 

Then along came Xmas morning, and I found myself receiving a thoughtful gift wrapped in seven layers of paper, in the middle of which was an envelope, wherein I found a card, enfolded within was a letter. 

I have something of a history when it comes to gifts, which is to say:
I'm shit at them, and I'm almost as shit at receiving them.
Bridget had been paying attention tho, and when I told her about how Kandace would buy me a gift year-on-year, each more personally apropos than the last, and every year I would accept them with visibly-demonstrated gratitude before proceeding to unwrap them with careful consideration so as to tear the wrapping as little as possible, then fold it neatly along the lines and hand it back to her so it could be re-used with a reverence reserved for the shucked-shell of the most holey, she'd been listening. 

She was good at picking gifts for me, too. If there's someone who can nail the gap between "something you didn't realise you wanted" and "but wouldn't buy for yourself", it's Kandace. 

So whenever she expressed that unique gift she has in my direction I endeavoured to return it in kind, by way of "delayed gratification" and take my time opening them to ensure she enjoyed the ride. Each year she'd stand there patiently with her trademark grin lighting up her face until the package was unwrapped, and I'd hand her back a neatly-folded piece of wrapping paper. 

I'd proceed to loudly appreciating the thing she'd given me, and she'd proceed to scrunching the paper into a ball and throwing it offhandedly, but with unerring accuracy, into the recycling bin. 

Coming to the envelope in the middle-layer of alternating-coloured paper, I stopped to read the card, and then the letter I found inside it. Seeing a YouTube link, I made her wait whilst I went and grabbed my laptop and laboriously typed in the URL so I could play it whilst reading, then made her wait some more until I finished listening to it before resuming the un-wrappening. 

Just like with Kandace I reserved my response until the end, because a gift is a singular thing regardless of how many moving parts are therein comprised. Just like one's initial reaction can only presented in that one singular moment; that gift of our time which we call "the present". 

If memory serves, I smiled and kissed her, but that memory is as fuzzy as it is rose-tinted. 

The gift still sits on the buffet next to my CD collection, and the paper was used to wrap another gift 12 months later, which took considerably longer to unwrap neatly. The kiss lingers in echoes, but that's another story entirely. The letter, on the other hand... 

After reading it I gave up on the piece I'd started writing and deleted it; I've done enough rounds in the ring to know when I've been beat, and by then I'd lost too much pride not to admit the bell had rung and it was time to throw in the towel. What I'd just read may have owed a debt to ChatGPT but it said what I'd wanted to say, from a better perspective, better than I was going to... so why waste the effort when I had a better version in my hand? 

I say that because, with her permission, I posted it verbatim just before I started writing this introduction, back-dated to the moment I received it because for all that the future in the moment I first read that letter was a mystery, and the year-and-change since are now history, I still treasure the memory of reading those words for the first time like the gift they continue to be in my present...  

... which you can find here: Bridget's Guest Post: Resurrection + bridge = Happiness?

Provenance...

 When Boldilocks arrived I took him for a walk around Braddon and Civic; he'd been on the road for four-hours-and-change, getting the city you're visiting under your feet is a great way to unclench after a long drive, and as comfortable as the 6th-floor office I call 'Home' might be there'd be plenty of time to drink in the view. Hitting Northbourne Ave we started catching up on what we've been up to since last he graced my presence in April because whilst we're in semi-regular contact and we've heard it all before, it's important not to underestimate how much better it is to hear someone's stories transmitted directly from voice-box to tympanic membrane through the vibration of Nitrogen/Oxygen/Argon than when there's an electronic intermediary, and how much easier it is to read the mind of the man who's been your friend for longer than you care to calculate, even if you still think of him as the Padawan who could never get his timesheets submitted reliably, from the twitch of the muscles in his face than the pattern of white-and-black pixels preceding a blinking cursor on the LED screen of this year's laptop. 

Turning left onto Elouera St, I started pointing out The Sights: 

"There's Bent Spoke; there are two main micro-breweries in Canberra, the other's Capital, but Bent Spoke's my 'local'. This is where Ian and I were sinking pints when I realised I'd decided I was going to move back." 

"Check out the Rainbow round-a-bout ahead - they made it even-more-inclusive a year or so ago by cutting a quarter off the Pride Flag-ring and replacing it with the Trans/Ace/fucked-if-I-know colours."
"..."
"Yeah I lose track, but it's not for us, is it? Nice that everyone gets to feel 'seen' tho, yeah?"

The story I heard was that the rainbow had been painted on the road of the Lonsdale/Elouera roundabout for Pride one year, and when a bunch of wowsers complained the Road Transport Authority at ACT Government went and made it permanent to spite them. It may be apocryphal, but my theory is that if I click my heels together and tell it enough it will become 'true'. 

"Look left? Up there is the bottlo from the 'Deadman' post where I trip because a pretty girl smiled at me."
"Blackhearts & Sparrows?"
"That's the one. We'll cruise past there later. Hang a right..." 

"Hey, remember in 'Going nowhere fast' and I talk about walking past a gym full of people running on the spot, and what both of us are doing is pointless but at least they're honest about it? 
"That's it, right there." 
"Huh. Yeah?" 
"And in the 'chaotic magnitude' post and I talk about a 'pool table in a dingy pub on a Friday night'?" 
I point over at The Civic Hotel, "that's the pub." 

I haven't been back there in years, but I've heard that they refurbished recently and replaced the pool tables in the back-room with a dining area; I could go and confirm, but I have so many fond memories of those days I'd rather keep them intact than replace them with whatever's now 'true'. 

"Oh hey, and in the 'Resurrection Deluge' when I land back here and talk about making three trips to Coles in two days, and 'keeping my feet between my face and the pavement'?" 
"Yeah?" 
"Well," I point my face south-and-east across Cooyong St, "there's the Coles," then down at my feet, "and there's the pavement." 

We cruised through Garema Place to see the Dodgy Sheep and the weird Whispering Wall thing, although the Doug Anthony All Stars plaque turned out to be covered by the astroturf at the pro-Palestine Protest. Back at my place later, the Show & Tell continued: 

"Oh! There on the wall? That's my half of the Art Project!"
"Shit, I spotted that earlier! What happened to the other half?"
"Wound up on the wall in Penpal's daughter's room, she said."
"..."
"Yeah, kinda weird, but apparently she took a shine to it and there was a vacant hook." 

"Oh! Check this out!" I say, handing him a mug with stylised technicolour double-helixes on each side. 
"What's this?"
I pull the business card out of it and show it to him, "that's Occam's Canadan Amy - she gave it to me when I saw her last in Perth." 
"Oh..."
"Yeah, she's real - that's her biz."

"Check this out," I drag him around to the desk-side of the display cabinet in the middle of the room, "see the little plushie octopus in the top-left corner?" 
"Holding a little hand-drawn card?"
"That's the one. After she read the 'It's not you... it's me' post, Bridget asked me if the 'tiny octopus' bit at the beginning was a secret reference to 'giant pacific octopus' by Enter Shikari. 
"It wasn't, but it's become a bit of a thing. 
"She's taken to keeping the side-pockets of her backpack stocked with little plushies from Ikea, gives them out to random strangers at the lights when she's riding her bike, asked if I wanted one. She had a turtle, an orca, or... so I picked that one; thought it was adorb's."
"She really is."
"Shush, you. 
"It's one of two things in this cabinet which faces towards my desk. Can you spot the other one?"
"Behold," he reads, "My field of fucks; and see that it is barren." 
"That's the one.
"Sandra cross-stitched it, mailed it to me years ago, so I found a frame and it used to hang from a vacant hook in my old office." 
"THAT Sandra?"
"The one and only." 

"But hey, speaking of ocean-critters, check this out," I duck to the fridge and grab a stainless-steel flask. 
"The water bottle from 'The thing I do for a living'? That's it."
"Damn..." he said, weighing it in his hand as moisture began condensing on the surface. 
"Yeah, funny thing; turns out I also snagged a tshirt on that trip," I say, waving it at him, "so it WASN'T the only memento I took away. 
"Ain't ret-con'ing the post tho, just sayin'."
"Nah, why ruin it?"
"Exactly. I like that bit - it was punchy." 

We pour a couple of glasses from the bottle of Chivas Regal he'd picked up from the First Choice across the road on Mort St on our way back, and I chuckle to myself as I remember the flight back from my last trip to Perth as we head out to the balcony: 

"That's The Seat I sit in when I'm writing, and over in the corner is the one I bought from a thrift store for 5$. Don't sit in it; it really is falling apart. 
"But seriously, check out the view. 
"There's Black Mountain and Minas Telstra, which is right up there as far as 'iconic Canberra' goes. 
"Over there's ANU, and the CSIRO Lab's."
"From 'Drowning in silence'."
"Yeah. Same dive trip." 
"Shit," he muttered, looking at the flask he was still holding. 
Looking to the right as he leaned against the balustrade, "oh... those traffic lights... but in the fog?"
"Yeah, from 'It's not you... it's me'. Really did happen just as I was writing that bit and it was too perfect not to include."
"Shit, man. 
"It's...
"It's a lot more 'real', standing here, y'know?"
I nod, staring into space. 
"It is real. 
"All of it. 
"The narrative might be selective at times, but not one word of it's a lie. 
"But hey," I look over and proffer my glass, "thank you for the part you've played in making it happen. 
"Throwing me music to listen to, the sanity-checks, the peer-reviews." 
Our glasses meet in the middle with a <clink>, "and hey, thanks for coming to visit." 

The cost of doing business... (Part I: Perihelion)

 Musical accompaniment: Enter Shikari - The Last Garrison

I used to think I was playing the lead in my own story, and... you never know I may even have been right, but as the days roll by I find myself haunted by the idea that I've quietly transitioned to playing a walk-on role in other people's. It's easy to mistake the part we play for 'titular' when it's really 'supporting' after all; our perspective of the events we participate in is recorded from our own (statistically) binocular PoV, so when you're focused on wearing down your teeth chewing the scenery it's easy to forget the BLOCKCAP advice the Director included in the footnotes on every page of the script you skimmed, which read: 

REMEMBER: NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU.

I've been wading through the endless-seaming river of my professional life with my feet in two very different streams of consciousness. On one side I've been working hard to keep my existing clients happy, or in the case of Marine#2 frantically keeping them from getting too pissed off (they eventually signed off on the VOIP solution I sold them, and everything that could possibly go wrong subsequently has). On the other has been an ongoing struggle to convince someone in Canberra to let me solve big problems for them for big money. Whilst time-consuming, neither of those activities have come close to utilising the complete range of my skillset, so in the middle of the two there's been a lot of room to put some of the other tools I keep handy to use. Some days it's felt like I've brought more of those resources to bear, and exerted more effort, for other people's benefit than my own. I could pretend to a perspective of Zen selflessness and talk about that being OK because we all know there's only one of me, and I am Nothing, but then I'd be skipping everything in the other half of the story to create a false-perception of depth. Whilst spending the coin of my knowledge and experience brings me nothing but joy, I can't actually say that with a straight face because each of those coins is two-sided, and on the other defaced side there's an aspect of me which still yearns for recognition. Every bit of credit I have to spend cost me a piece of myself to acquire; whether the currency was opportunity, or my finite energy, an eigth of a pound of flesh, or one irrecoverable moment of my time, I paid a price for everything I have and there's a bit of me that wants something in return. 

But who the fuck am I to ask for it, when everything I built myself from was given to me by someone else? When your boot is sitting next to the thimble, roadster, and terrier on Go with an empty board in front of you and a pair of dice in your hand, the play money you start with had to come from somewhere. 

As we walk our own lonely Road of Bones, the only road that we have ever known, it's too easy to forget that we walk on the the clean-pecked scapulas and clavicles of giants to whom we can never repay the favour; we owe it to the next set of calloused feet to make sure that when we fall ours rest as tall as Phlebas, and provides a higher perspective. 

Backing track: AViVA - Sacrifice

My phone rang a couple of weeks ago at 12:47PM with the name of my 2023 Padawan on the screen. The time of day told me something was up, but that wasn't the half of it: 

She was calling me. 
On the phone. 
Laika's a member of the emergent generation for whom a "phone" is a pocket-sized internet portal, who consider the bit where it can be made to ring because someone wants to talk to you using their voice an insufferable affront to social decency. 

I remember being taught how to use a rotary-dial phone, the numbers you entered sequentially came printed on a kilo of dead-tree each year, or were written down carefully by hand in an alphabetised notebook, and calling across the country was an expensive extravagance.
Now we call numbers we can't remember and talk to people we'll never meet on the far-side of the globe for the fun of it, and for free. 
Yeah, I know, I'm old; Laika's young enough to be my daughter. 

And she was calling me. 
On the phone. 
"What the fuck?" I thought, "what's gone wrong...?" 

Turns out the answer to that was 'plenty' but that's not my story to tell, it's just the one she called to tell me.
But she wasn't calling me because she wanted to ask for help, she was calling because she needed to tell someone who'd get it without needing to have 'it' explained.
She needed a friend who'd answer the phone when it rang, who wouldn't judge her for what she told them, who'd help if they could without being asked. 

I plead guilty on both charges, Your Honour. 
I do what I can, and there are a lot of things I can do. 
I throw myself on the mercy of the court. 

I've been taking on Padawans for a long time now, and it's a thing I can say, without prejudice, that I take pride from. I can't tell you when I started exactly, but it's a truth universally acknowledged, that a no-longer-young professional in possession of a good knowledge of The Job, must want to show the colleagues more junior to them how better it might be done. One day you turn around and realise that the earnest kid you're performance managing isn't just taking your workplace lessons to heart, they've started emulating you in their personal life as well, and if that doesn't leave a mark like Bruce Lee kicking you in the face whilst wearing sneakers with "RESPONSIBILITY" moulded into the sole, you don't have one. 

Call it a messiah complex, call it inferred generational debt, or my nascent paternal instinct, call it what you will. I decided a long time ago that I was never having children of my own; I've been told countless times that I'd come to regret my decision "one day", but just like 'tomorrow' and Godot that day has remained stubbornly on the other side of the horizon, and never seems to arrive. I'm fairly certain I was born to be an uncle - all care and no responsibility, gone the moment a nappy needs changing, and long before bedtime. The thing we all need to remember is that no one is born knowing everything they need to know. Some people are preternaturally quick on the uptake (which comes with its own dumpstats) but for the rest of us, unless we're just going to repeat the same old mistakes we need to learn from someone else. There are many from whom I learned, and there are a growing, happy few who've learned from me. 

I have exemplary credentials, I'll have you know; I've made a LOT of mistakes. 

Being an 'uncle' means getting to choose your level of involvement; when you should stay, and when you should go. 'Deadbeat dads' notwithstanding, parenthood is a "Hotel California"-style life-choice, and I've stubbornly refused to relinquish my right to leave the moment I decide to check out. If you think that sounds selfish and irresponsible, I'll say to you the same thing I said to my father when he denounced me for refusing to sacrifice my existential autonomy in the name of progenitating grandchildren to carry on his name: 

"Yeah, nah, go fuck yourself." 
I know what I'm good at, and there's a lot of good I can do. 
But playing the role of "consistently positive role-model" ain't one of them. 

I hold parents to a pretty high standard; my father never met it, and I'm far-too-much my father's son. "Mother," according to Thackeray, "is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children," but it's also true that fathers are their own flavour of role models, so if your father bails what does that tell you? "You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, he hates you." 

Not being that guy is not the worst thing that can happen. 

I was never going to be anyone's 'forever-father', but 'dad-for-a-day' is something I can pick up and run with. It's the sort of relationship no one asks for directly, and no one accepts, because you fall in and out of it naturally. There's no application process, and no one gets an invitation to apply, although there've been exceptions... 

Like the conversation I had with young Andy, who looked at me in awe when I was talking one day about some difficult shit I'd been dealing with at work. 
"I just... you have now idea how badly I want to be like you."
"Seriously dude? You... do you have any idea? 
"I..." quoted Perry Cox, "only barely want to be like me?" 

Adoration may taste like heaven, but that moment was one I didn't want to drink; it tasted like acetone, and as I fled for the nearest horizon so fast my boots barely touched the ground I felt quite alone. 

Laika took what was offered, and that seems to have been enough, because she picked it up and ran, leaving me right where I belong; alone in the dust of her wake. 

Does that sound like a tragedy? It's not. 
Because it ain't over yet. 
If you haven't worked it out, 
Let me tell you what: 
Watching them de-rez into a b1t on the horizon
Is the p0int. 

Continued in Part II: Transit...

Spaceballs... I mean Phase Shifting: The T-Shirt...

 A couple of years ago I made some art, and turned it into a blog post. 
Yesterday I took a blog post, and turned it into art. 

Sorta. 

I could weave a story about receiving a promotion code from Sticker Mule, who I use for my stickers, for a cheap custom t-shirt, thinking it would be funny to make the hypothetical shirt I mentioned in the last post into something real, sitting around with my laptop fiddling with clipart in Publisher, then enlisting Bridget's help to generate vector-images which would scale nicely but that would be... wait, no, there it is. 

That's the story. 

This, on the other hand, is the mockup: 

Beyond the references to the Looking back/out/forward... post there are a bunch of my usual tropes baked in as "easter eggs" - 3's, cycles, 42, and so on; those little things which amuse me. Plus, for AUD$14 (including GST and delivery) I can now say "my blog has merch," which I can't help but find sublimely ridiculous, because I have zero interest in selling any. 

Here's the high-resolution design for your pleasure and/or derision: 

Looking back/out/forward...

 Musical accompaniment: Enter Shikari - Stop the Clocks 

Existing in three places at once is a strange way to live. It's as if you've one foot in the grave, the other in the cradle, and somewhere in the middle your nuts are hanging over a pool full of piranhas. It feels like you're living in a dream; not the one where you're giving a speech in front of the whole school and suddenly realise you forgot to put on pants, and not the one where you show up to a job interview and suddenly realise your cock is hanging out, not even the one where you're trying to coordinate your own going-away party but the gearbox just fell out of your bike and you have to crawl through the garbage-pile under the mechanics-shop you were stopped at because fuck-knows-why to collect all the cogs and bearings from amongst the rusty old Holden-branded Kingswood parts then ride back to the party with it all piled up on the end-cover sitting on your tank because apparently your bike is magic and who the fuck even needs gears anyway because you need to sort out the people who showed up to help load the shipping container with all your possessions and your bike and its gearbox and your little dog too before the train leaves and there's no time to waste and no time to lose because Gillian Anderson is the Conductor and she's looking at her fob-watch with a look on her face which you know means the train's leaving with or without you the moment the low-nitrile glove she's pulling on goes *snap* and don't even start because she's done with you and your shit. 

I may be feeling a little exposed right now. 

"I don't remember my dreams particularly often," I said, "and when I do they just leave me confused," 
and you said "that makes two of us." 

It seems like I'm living in sequential deja vu, like I'm Starbuck in Battlestar Galactica, because all of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again, and maybe I died, and maybe I survived the explosion, and maybe I'm an angel, and you just know that whether the showrunners throw in a kludgey ret-con, or just leave it mysteeeeeerious, you're going to feel unfulfilled when the credits roll regardless. 

Either way, I keep finding myself looking back at the ghost of Younger Pete when he was going through an earlier iteration of the same shit, thinking about what I'd tell myself if I could: 

"A'ight shithead, for starters don't date her. That was tragic," I tell myself. 
"I get to date *HER*? She sounds amazing!" 
"Oh, yeah, she is, but it all ends in tears." 
"How so? Does she screw us over or something?" 
"No, see... look... don't get me wrong, but you're a dick. You just don't know it yet."
"..." 
"It's all on you, but you learn from it eventually, if that helps any?" 
"So what you're saying is if I just don't be a shit-heel I get to be with the dream-babe?" 
"No, see... look... it's the fucking up that you learn from, right? 
"Plus she goes on to be with someone great, and they wind up really happy." 
"So you're saying I *should* date her, because it works out better for everyone?
"Or for her, at least." 
"..." 
"Sounds to me like it's going to be worth it, and you're still a dick, just sayin'." 
"No! I mean... true... but... OK, now I'm proper confused," 
and he said "that makes two of us." 

There's a tap on my shoulder, and the clocks stop. 

"A'ight shithead..." 
"Jesus wept, this is starting to feel like some Xmas Carol-shit right here."
"Fuck you, you insufferable twat-nozzle. Listen well, because there's shit I need me to know..." 
"What, like how to avoid some horrible thing I'll only learn from by doing, fucking up, and won't get to be you if I don't?"
"..." 
"Been there, tried that, bought the t-shirt, remember?" I tell myself, pointing to the shirt I'm wearing which reads 'I TRIED TO VIOLATE CAUSALITY AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY PARADOX'. 
"You forgot the black eye." 
"What blac...?" 

<SUCKERPUNCH> 

"Not as smart as you thought you were, huh?"
"Yeah yeah fine, you smug-faced cock-womble, you got me," I reply from the floor, chuckle, and continue, "man, I've always wanted to do that. 
"So glad I get to. 
"Can't fucking wait, not gonna lie." 
"..." 
"This is bullshit tho, we both know it. You KNOW you only got to be better than you were because I fuck up again. You were there, you saw it. 
"We're too fucking arrogant; the only way we learn is from our own mistakes. 
"Speaking of which: back atcha, cunt," I say, jabbing two fingers hard into my already-swollen eye whilst I watch myself grimace through the other. 

"Go fuck yourself; I'm doing the best I can." 

I look myself in the eye and say, "that makes two of us." 

Rituals...

Backing track: Marshmello - Alone 

 When I flew in to Perth in June, Ricky picked me up from the airport late in the evening and ran me out to my mother's house, then hung around for an hour or so before leaving me to get far-too-little sleep.
When I left, Ian picked me up after work and we went to The Kewdale Tavern for dinner before he dropped me off for my redeye-horror flight back. 
The next morning, after transiting through Melbourne, Bridget picked me up bleary-eyed on her way to work and took me home, where I collapsed into bed and slept for most of the day. 

When I flew into Perth a fortnight ago, Ricky picked me up from the airport and drove us out to Alfred's Kitchen to get a late-night feed and hang around the fire for an hour or so before running me out to my mother's house to sleep far-too-little.
On my way back, Ian came out to pick me up after work, and took me to The Kewdale Tavern for dinner before dropping me off for my cushy Business Class redeye flight out.
I was just as bleary-eyed when Bridget picked me up to take me home, then worked from my desk for the rest of the day when I crashed out in my own bed and slept through the day. 

The first two times I went back to Perth after Leaving For Good, I wrote trilogies of blog posts about my sense of dysphoria as I went; one on the flight over, one whilst there, the last on the flight back.
This time I seem to have managed to leave that dysphoria behind, so I talked about that, and the Joy Of Work instead, and when I settled into my extravagantly-comfortable paid-for-with-Points fully-reclining seat I realised there was nothing I felt the need to say, so enjoyed a glass of Chivas Regal while I read my book then found some sleep, and let the third trilogy end at two parts. 

Backing track: Pendulum - Not Alone (Calvin Harris cover) 

I can't help but notice patterns, and I'm instinctively inclined towards building seamless systems that work smoothly. I might walk a path that's chaotic, but I have routines which ensure that every time I walk out the door I'm prepared, with all of my tools exactly where I expect to find them when the next wave hits; book-ending the chaos with order helps me stay in control, and means I never leave my phone charger in the hotel room when I check out. 

My mission over the last few months has been to break the patterns I've found myself trapped in so that I can walk a new, different path, without leaving Beckett waterlogged and glowering at me from the gutter where I emptied my bath of self-pity. Mostly, I seem to be succeeding. 

"I enjoyed your last post," Ian told me over Beef Brisket Rendang and Chicken Korma, "it's a departure from your recent milieu, but the character is still recognisably 'you'. 'A day in the life' is an established literary mode and you do it well. How you banged that out while travelling and staving off sleep deprivation is impressive." 

I might be making an effort to reinvent and resurrect, but I *am* still Me; Me with my penchant for three's, and my cyclical narrative-style. Breaking the cycle of misery and cutting out the things that make you miserable doesn't necessarily mean making wholesale changes like throwing out the bathwater, and your furbaby along with it. It can be as simple as changing your approach in smol ways, like limiting your lists to two things instead of three, and using fewer semi-colons.

You can, and should, take a knife to anything that stands between you and where you need to be; yesterday's Sacred Cow is today's graven image.

You can, and should, hold on to the rituals you take comfort from when you kick yourself out your Comfort(ably Numb)-zone; we may have put down childish things when we became a 'man', but we still observe the Sabbath and keep it holy. 

The space you carve out between the two can become room for a New Covenant you make with yourself to be a You that's better, maybe even one that's more whole. 

No matter what tho, always leave room for another Special at your Favourite Burger Joint On The Planet, or this week's Brisket Special at the Conveniently Out-of-the-way Gastropub, so that when the opportunity arises you can enjoy them with your sweetest friends, who'll love you no matter what you become. 

The Thing I Do For A Living...

 Backing track: flor - Slow Motion

It's still dark outside when I roll over on Thursday morning and check my phone to find out it's 4:17AM. I've been asleep for three and a half hours, and I don't need to be up for at least two more, so after a quick bladder-drain I roll back into the unfamiliar bed I just woke up in to see if I can find them. Just like my cat in similar situations they seem to have slipped into the gloom with no intention of being found, but a short while later I hear my mother going about her morning routine in the kitchen, so I get up to say hello. Ricky picked me up from the airport when I landed just before Mother Dear's bedtime last night, so she was asleep and the house still when I crept in silently and sent myself to bed after a late dinner at Alfred's Kitchen. My maternal obligation discharged, she takes herself off to the "food rescue" charity where she volunteers a couple of times a week, and I shake myself to the shower to sluice off the film of fatigue I brought back from dreamland, pull on my corporate uniform, and sit down with my laptop and a coffee to prep for the day. 

I've a full schedule ahead of me; Andrew the Shipwright booked at least the first half of my day the moment he knew I'd be in town, and there's easily three more hours I need to spend at Marine#2. I check my email, and the tracking on the hardware shipment which I need to arrive in Mandurah by Monday to find it's expected today, so Marine#4 receive an "everything's falling into place" email to read over their tea and toast. Correspondence clear, I stow my laptop alongside the backup I carry everywhere when I'm on a work trip, check that my tools are in their relevant pockets, shoulder my backpack, push flor through my earphones, and hit the street. Mother Dear needs her car today, and Bibra Lake is not what you'd call "easily accessible from here" by public transport, so the company credit card will be taking a couple of Uber-sized hits today. That coffee barely scratched the surface of my sleep deprivation and I'm going to need caffeine today like a bee-sting victim needs epinephrine because caffeine is life, so I head towards the nearby servo. I could get the Uber-driver to stop enroute, but it's barely 6:31AM and there's no point arriving much before 8:00AM, so I might as well walk. 

The air has a cool crispness as I hi-ho, hi-ho my way north through Lathlain, and we both seem oddly cheerful. By the time I walk through the doors of the BP on Archer St I've received an affable nod from the lantern-jawed jogger with a distinctly military bearing I pass on Goddard St, a smile from the middle-aged anglo lady walking a pair of excitable pitbulls on Custance St when I go wide to stay outside their leash-radius, which is almost as embarrassed as the grinning indigenous driver's teeth are white when he waves me past after I go to give way to him just before Roberts Rd. 

By 7:47AM I'm climbing out of a Mazda CX-50 after a pleasant chat with my Nepalese driver and a smooth run down Leach Hwy just in time to catch Andrew the Shipwright pulling up on his pushbike. I reach into my backpack, crack open the first of my cache of glistening energy drinks, follow him inside, and get to work. 

First order of business is a restructure of Marine#1's Sharepoint Document Library. I've been gently nagging them for months to separate the more sensitive documents out of the "all access" library and into the Management Team location I set up with more appropriate RBAC's, and it's finally become a priority to them. A week ago I received an email from Andrew at 6:56PM his time, and I called him straight away. 

"You need this looked at now, or tee'ing it up for when I'm in town next week?" 
"God no. What is it, 9 o'clock over there? Just getting it on your radar." 
"10. Daylight Savings kicked in on the weekend." 
"Fucking hell, you're worse than I am..." 

I checked the Dynamic Groups and metadata filters before I flew out, so all it takes is triggering a Sync on Andrew the Shipwright's desktop, and showing him how to do a back-end Move in his browser. I'll set up an auto-sync Policy in Intune in a few days once I'm sure he's not going to rearrange again, but I like to run checks and maintenance on the PC fleet by hand every once in a while because it gives me the opportunity to check in with the staff, so I go desk-to-desk. I find that a lot of feedback and niggles they wouldn't ordinarily think to mention fall out when I take over their machine to give it a shake-down and get them chatting. It might sound inefficient for a half-hour task to take two, but in that time I've sorted out an audio driver problem, found a misconfiguration causing people's Word and Excel to save in ODF instead of the standard XML format, fixed the Bookkeeper's printer connection and shown her how to cache her Remote Access login, cut the Service Manager over from Remote Desktop to the more streamlined RemoteApp experience, and discovered two more members of the Management Team than we'd thought there were at 8:26AM. 

I cruise back to the Bossman's office and debrief him whilst I check over the old PC that used to run the camera control software for his timelapse solution, declare that 12 years is long enough to keep a Lenovo SFF with 8GB of RAM and a 2nd Gen Intel Core i5 CPU in service, and strip the hard disk out for separate disposal to the rest of the machine. I prefer Dell equipment for their warranty, build-quality, and overall value, but I'll be the first to agree that Lenovo build their kit as robust as Russians build assault rifles. This was a good use for a machine that had got too slow for production work, and while a Raspberry Pi could have done it just as well he didn't have one of those lying around. It's spent at least the last 6 years of its longer-than-average service life connected to a USB-to-Ethernet adapter, the pair to which was plugged into an old Canon EOS 1300D DSLR he'd mounted to a bracket overlooking the workshop which pumps out 25 twin-engine catamarans a year. The software running on the PC triggered the camera to take a photo twice a day, 5 days a week, saving it into a folder sync'd to its own Sharepoint Library that he shares with clients so they can watch their half-million dollar boats being built in real-time. At the end of the build those photos get rolled into a minute-long video, burned to a DVD with the stills, the media archived, and the process starts all over again. When I was here back in June I put my head together with the guys who manage Marine#1's security system, and set up a PoC using one of those cameras instead. There are a lot of benefits to using a security camera for this; weatherproofing copes with the the paint, resin, and solvent fumes much better than the delicate seals in a DSLR, and the polymer dust from sanding back the hull gets into everything. The workshop has a set of industrial-strength extraction fans at the rear, and they've sealed every gap with caulk to keep the entire two-story space at negative-pressure, preventing it from becoming a toxic OHS nightmare. The door to the break-room is chocked open so they can come and go, and the constant breeze flowing through it keeps dust from getting into everyone's toasties. Andrew's a remarkably clever guy, and it shows in situations like this. Even so, that old Canon was caked with white dust, and the lens constantly needed cleaning. It also needed separate power, plus the software was flakier than a fish & chip shop's specials and needed a regular kick to keep running. Security cameras are designed to take a pounding, and with PoE they only need one cable to run. A couple of months ago the security guys fitted a Pan-Tilt-Zoom model, and I wrote a script to make it point to different parts of the workshop in sequence, capturing a still at each, so now there are five timelapse sets being generated each day rather than one. It's been running without a hitch ever since, the DSLR is sitting on a shelf behind the infamous laser-cutter, and the time has finally come for the old Lenovo to go to its ultimate reward in Silicon Heaven where all the calculators go, and the iron shall lie down with the lamp. 

The SFF chassis becomes a riser for the App Server to get it off the floor, and I hand the mechanical 500GB SATA drive over to the Field Mechanics so they can give it a viking funeral. 

I'm rolling the cables up to throw in the spares cupboard at 11:34AM when Andrew the Shipwright's new iPhone 16 Pro lands on the desk I'm sitting under along with his old 14; he needed a handset for a new hire, but why should the FNG get the new hotness when the Bossman's still sporting a two-generation old model? The automated Intune deployment I built a while back didn't quite accommodate some of his customisations, and he was getting a login loop in Authenticator. I'd finished wiping, reprovisioning, and reconfig'ing the 14 by the time I worked out Authenticator on the 16 Pro was trying to retrieve the now-deleted auth token from the 14, and I need to hop into his Entra account to remove the surplus Authentication Method; I'm a little ashamed with myself for how long it took to work out, but by this point I've been on the job longer than I slept last night and it hadn't quite ticked over midday. 

I've handed the Bossman his phone back and set the new mechanic's one on the charge when my own phone rings, so I step out for a break and have a chat with the pimp I've been dealing with lately. I put in an application for a chunky-looking role a few weeks ago; one of the larger federal departments looking for an ITSM Transformation Manager to review and rebuild their IT Service Delivery structure and practice from the inside-out. She tells me they'd pulled it from BuyICT, which is why I've not heard anything since, and have just put it back up again with small changes to the requirements. The response I wrote up previously is still applicable so at least won't need a redo, but she suggests we shave $5/hour off my original asking rate before resubmitting to keep things competitive. That's still $15/hour more than the base-rate I quote for gig-work, and this is a multi-year full-time contract, so I rubber-stamp it and kept moving. 

On the way back up I stop by the comm's rack to pull the hard drive out of the Unifi Dream Machine Pro SE; I'd run a parallel PoC for the timelapse solution using an old Unifi Protect camera I had lying around, but as nice as the apps and management options are it's not a use-case which Unifi developed it for, so it hadn't been effective. I'd disabled the service and purged the drive earlier in the morning and prefer not to leave loose-ends, so I pull my screwdriver out to gank the 500GB SSD for re-use elsewhere. While I'm pottering around in the rack tidying up a few errant cables and checking the stock of spares I have stashed the mechanics are cruising through to grab their lunch, and I receive a steady stream of "how you doin' Pete?" and "heeeey, you're back!" as they go by. Spending a solid week and a half in and amongst them in June made me a familiar face, and they like me because the shit I build makes their lives a LOT easier, I always ask before borrowing tools, and put them back where I found them. Just as I'm finishing up Lukey comes by to ask for advice on recovering space on his home computer; it sounds like the main drive is full of old iTunes cache and backups, so I tell him how to move that all to the secondary disk, and make sure he has my email address in case that's not enough. He leaves with a grin, I close the rack back up, and head back upstairs at 12:29PM. 

I've just sat down to check some emails, and I'm half-way through letting Marine#4 know that the delivery has arrived at the workshop next to theirs when The Fucking EFTPOS Tech finally shows his face. They've been out to install the new payment terminal twice already, for an hour or more each time, without managing to get their shit in one sock; I'd dealt with two different gormless muppets over the phone, and had to talk the Parts Manager through getting his desktop back up and running when the last one broke his network settings on his way out the door, knocking him offline. They called to schedule the third-time's-a-charm appointment the day after I'd let Andrew know I was coming, so he set it up for the day he knew I'd be paying him a visit. I've been waiting all day for this, oh yes, so I snap my laptop closed, leave it on the charge, put on my best devilish grin, and apparate downstairs in a puff of brimstone to play Deeply Scary Technomage. 

I've just finished sending that email to Marine#4 at 1:07PM when Andrew steps back into his mezzanine office. 

"Oh, there you are. I thought the EFTPOS guy was showing up?" 
"Yep. Been, gone." 
"That was quick. Took him an hour to give up last time. What went wrong?"
"Nothing. It's in. Working, sorted." 
"..." 
"Wanna guess how long it took?" 
"... go on," he replied, a predatory grin touching the corner of his mouth. 
"10 minutes." 
"Nah, really? What'd you do!?" 
"Got him to plug it in, install his software, and growled at him whenever he tried to change anything else. Worked first time." 
"You gotta be kidding me..." 
"Yeah, if they'd just done what they were told the first time you'd have had it up and running weeks ago. They have a bullshit SOP they're made to follow, but they're still a pack of fucking clowns. 
"Oh, and I had to re-cable the damn thing afterwards. He left the power cord dangling right next to the network cable the Service Manager's doggo chewed on, so I bound it up with the rest. Pulled that out while I was at it," I say, pointing to the spool of frayed Cat-6 on the desk next to me. 
"Well we all know you're good at cleaning up after clowns, but what a three-ring shitshow. Thank fuck you were here, hey? I knew you'd sort it out."
"Hey man, it's what I do..." 

Backing track: The Presets - Promises

I still have a pile of odds and ends to do when I say my goodbyes and head over to Marine#2, but it's all mop-up and improvements I can do remotely so I load my backpack up and hit the road at 2:46PM. It's about a 15min walk, so decided to save $10 and take the opportunity to check in on Bridget who, with the 3 hour time difference now daylight savings has kicked in, should be home from work by now. It was forecast to hit 28 degrees in Perth today. Even with my hat on my nose picks up a rosy glow form the sun, and when I walk through the double-door into Marine#2's showroom at 3:02PM my feet and head are heavy with weariness, and I've worked up a sweat. 

I took these guys on four and a half years ago now. I'd been engaged by Marine#1 six-or-12 months earlier to migrate them from the cut-down implementation of Microsoft 365 which Crazy Domains peddles to people who don't know any better over to the real deal, with all the bells and whistles. A while later when Luke and Chris were complaining to Andrew about Krusty The Clown, their current IT Support, he told them, or so I heard from Chris some time later, "there's this guy Pete... he'll confuse the shit out of you, but he's real' fucking good. He'll get you sorted out." 

They sent me an email a couple of days later, I booked in a time to pay them a visit, and proceeded to spend most of the next year rebuilding their entire IT system from the ground up. Ever since I've come and gone like I'm one of team because for all intents and purposes I am, only on an at-call basis. It's been the same over at Marine#1, then Marine#3, and the way things are shaping up by the end of next week that will include Marine#4 as well. I've grown hugely fond of my salt-of-the-earth "boat folk" and their no-bullshit attitude. They just want their shit to work, aren't afraid to adjust if there's a better way to do things, and are happy to pay reasonably to make it happen. Over the years I've learned to flow in and around them like water, eroding the rough edges that used to get in their way. 

I've barely walked through the door when I'm marching back out of it again with the key to their PO Box in my hand, because AusPost decided that near enough was good enough, and left the RAM I'd ordered for them there instead of taking it all the way to the end. The first time I walked in those doors whilst on the clock I spent an afternoon going over the kit they were working with to see just how bad it could be, and it was pretty fucking bad. Krusty The Clown had a seriously dated concept for setting up an effective user environment; the under-spec'd Intel NUC's he'd sold them might have been OK if the Remote Desktop he was hosting had been decently resourced, wasn't piped down a VPN, then squeezed through an internet connection which was the digital equivalent of two rusty cans and a wet piece of string. There were more bottlenecks in his setup than the recycling bin after an undergrad end-of-semester party. I sat Luke and Chris down and laid out a plan to get some decent hardware on their desks, their email and file-sharing shifted to Microsoft 365, and a streamlined version of their Application Server migrated to some hardware we'd host onsite, staged out over the following year to make it easier to budget. We ordered a mix of laptops and desktops, enough to replace half their fleet, but with the prices of hardware at the peak of covid more inflated than a party clown's trousers I ordered them with smaller batteries and less RAM than I would have liked with a view to upgrading them in a year or two when things were cheaper. It turned out to be a solid play because they've run just fine, for much longer than I'd expected, and what would have cost an extra $200/unit in 2020 wound up coming to just over $100 for all three in 2024. 

Back in the showroom surrounded by Garmin sonars and Yamaha outboards, I go to fill up my water bottle only to find it's not in my backpack. I give Andrew a quick call and confirm that I have indeed left the stainless steel keepsake from my last ever dive trip on the desk I'd been using in his office. It's 3:38PM, I've at least two hours of work to do at Marine#2, and he's going the wrong way after he knocks off to drop past, so I'm going to have to come back another day. It's just a water bottle, but it's the only memento I took away from that trip that wasn't bad memories. I'm swearing at myself as I get on with popping the baseplates off and slotting the extra memory modules into the space I'd made sure would be ready to accept them when I designed these builds 50 months ago, clear the BIOS warning saying that the amount of memory has changed, run hardware checks, Disk Cleanup, driver and Windows updates, and hand them back to their users one-by-one. I've just started on the third-and-final when the Marine#1 Parts Manager comes through the door waving my Big Blue Dive Khao Lak flask overhead; Andrew wasn't going this way, but it turns out the Parts Manager was. 

"Marine#1 will be getting some freebies on their next hardware order," I tell myself. 
To the Parts Manager I say, "Thank you fucking legend!" 

The last thing on my run-sheet is a meeting with Luke, but he's in full-steam sales-pitch with a couple of customers weighing up engine options for the custom cruiser they're having built down the road. I squeeze in a check of the air filters on the server and comm's rack, both of which are clean, then settle in checking over a PC nearby where I can listen in. I've never had the chance to watch the man work, and it's fascinating. People browsing trailer-boats and accessories are all about the lifestyle; the tradies and professionals know what they want, so they're in and out, if they bother coming in at all. The sales patter switches between power-to-displacement ratios, the best moorings off Rottnest, digital-vs-analog autopilot profiles, and what fish are biting this month, delivered with a smooth professionally-approachable tone. The only way that man could have been more in his element would have needed us to be a couple of nautical miles west of Port Coogee Marina with his face full of spray blowing off the afternoon swell. Sadly I have a VOIP system to sell him, so our feet need to stay dry. 

He ushers his customers out the door at 5:00PM on the dot with the lure of freshly caught dhufish and maori wrasse dangling in front of them, and sits down to talk price and feature comparisons between the lacklustre system he's been receiving woeful support on and the locally-owned alternative I Partnered with a couple of years ago. Irritatingly, whilst the one he's got might be average, it's not SO BAD he can ignore the cost, and as feature-rich as my Partner's product is it's also 20% more expensive. It's a good conversation; I like being kept on my toes, although by 5:48PM I'm less "float like a butterfly" than "sink like an anchor". I plead exhaustion, a need to check bundling options, and promise to go haggle some more with the vendor. By 6:04PM I'm on the footpath out front helping lock up the gates whilst on the phone with my contact Enrico, who also happens to be their CEO. It's another 34min before I have a bundle to quote, clear my other missed calls, and finally hail an Uber to get me out of Bibra Lake where the light is fading and I'm increasingly being swarmed by flying ants. 

I have a pleasant ride in the back of the Mitsubishi Outlander, and an equally pleasant chat with its driver on my way to Bull Creek where I've completely misremembered the number of Binky's house. I've been visiting her there on-and-off for over half my life, and it's been 25 years since I had to know it, which is coincidentally the number of minutes the ride lasts. I knock on her door to find it unlocked and ajar so I let myself in at 7:14PM, landing next to my backpack on the floor of her living room with matching thuds. I take a moment to switch gears, say hello to her folks, pick myself back up, and load up to head out for dinner. 

We decide to go for steak, and both wind up getting the ribs special instead, but that's fine; it would be pretty boring if things always went according to plan. 

It's 11:17PM when I climb out of Binky's Infiniti Q60 in front of Mother Dear's house and walk down the long driveway with my silhouette cast in its headlights. I have 9.5 billable hours' worth of notes to write up and invoice, 3 unread emails which hit my inbox during dinner, and 2 quotes to do- or re-up, but none of that is getting done tonight. I've no site-work booked for Friday, so those are all problems for Future-Pete. Tomorrow's work will be completely different from today's, just like today bore absolutely no resemblance to yesterday, which is exactly how I like it. When I tell people with regular jobs, who go to work each day and do the same thing again and again, about what I do for a living they look at me like I'm mad, but the Andrews, Lukes, and Enricos, the Petes, Occam's Canadian Amys, and Sandras, anyone who's picked their own ball up to see how far they can run, they get it: 

When you love what you do for a living, you'll never work a day in your life. 
And if we didn't love what we do, we'd all go do something else. 
Because we could do that if we wanted, but we don't so we do this instead. 

The house is dark and still when I roll over to put my Kobo down and pick up my phone to set an alarm, and see it's 1:05AM. Friday has already started; the first problem to tackle today is going to be getting some sleep. 

Vapour trails...

 I've developed what I can't think of a better word for than a habit, it seems. There's a case to be made for suggesting that if "once is happenstance," "twice is coincidence," and "three times is enemy action," I could try framing my sense of unease around that, but I'm not feeling particularly combative, let alone under-fire, so that isn't sitting comfortably with me any more than I (or the fidgety young man sitting next to me) seem to be able to get comfortable in the chair I'll be sitting in for the next three-and-a-half hours. 

I'm on my way to Perth again, and we all know what that means... 

Perth music: Bend The Sky - Navigator

This is my third trip back in slightly less than a year, and by this point in the 7ish-hour "Canberra -> Somewhere -> The Most Isolated Regional Capital In The World" route I've been had to resort to using because Australia can't seem to grok the concept of "healthy competition in the airline market" is where I find I'm struggling to focus on whatever book I'm reading (The Conspiracy Against The Human Race by Thomas Ligotti, because I ran out of Culture novels and I very much owe it to Ian to read something he suggested and provide an asked-for opinion for a change), pull my laptop out, and give voice to the discomfort, dysphoria, and dread that place evokes in me. This flight I find myself staring at the screen of my laptop (as is the young man sitting to my right, I can see out of the corner of my eye. Don't use too many of the words you read here around your mum, kid. She'll thrash the fucking shit out of you, I swear) and... I got nothing. I'm scratching my head as to why, to be honest: 

Perhaps I've used up all of my wellspring of corrosive vitriol and smouldering rage? 
No, that can't be right; we might be cruising ~10km above the ground, but this is far from heaven. 
Could it be that after ~10,000 words of increasingly wanktastic self-paced catharsis my spleen is finally vented?
No way to prove or disprove that one, really; it's a scenario that's never been observed in nature.
Maybe I'm finally over hating on that ~100km-long skidmark of a town smeared along left-hand side of the map like a crusty old pair of y-fronts clinging to the arse-end of the country badly in need of a soak in sulfuric acid and ritual cremation, where the only redeemable examples of humanity dream desperately of getting out or, when precluded from doing so by fate or poor life-choices, conspire to lure me back... 

Ah Darkness, my old friend, there you are. Funny how when you lose something it always turns up in the last place you look, don't you find that? 

Sincerest apologies to Andrew the Shipwright tho; it's going to take more than a couple of new clients to entice me off my balcony for more than a week or two, but that doesn't mean I appreciate the effort any less, or that I'm suggesting he stop. 

I'd make a joke about how "better men than him have tried", but that would imply that there's an intersection of those two sets of people, and bearing in mind how vanishingly small the first group is the resulting venn diagram would be comically difficult to represent in any meaningfully proportionate way. Andrew the Shipwright didn't introduce me to the new client I picked up recently, who's new site spin-up was (only just) big enough a job to make it worth contributing to the world's carbon dioxide burden, but he DID recommend me to Marine#2, who in turn introduced me to Marine#3 and now #4;  unlike blame and effluent, thanks flow uphill. It's been quite a while since I landed a new client, in fact I've not added anyone regular to my invoice-cycle since quite a while before The Job That Brought Me Back To Canberra. Adding complement to amelioration, this one came to me on reputation; they saw what I'd done with Marine#2 and said "we'll have what they're having", so like a double entendre I'm going to give it to them. 

The west isn't my only prospect for amusement or a paycheck tho, thank fuck. I have what has every semblance of momentum building on the "fixing big problems for big money" front back home, and meetings booked for when I get back. I also have Bridget picking me up from the airport to look forward to, which is nice. No, we didn't get back together; why try to resurrect something it turns out was better off dead when you can climb aboard the bloated corpse, stick a pole with a sheet tied to it up its arse, and sail away on a wave of mutilation? Breaking up seems to be just what our relationship needed, so we're going with whatever-the-fuck-this-is because what the fuck even are labels anyway? 

Funny ol' language, English. On one hand we have words like "expiate" for a concept which seems more-than-adequately serviced in the lexicon. On the other we have this word "relationship" which we use to refer to interpersonal arrangements involving romance, lust, or (occasionally) love, but fundamentally describes any ongoing interaction between two or more people. It's all a bit confusing when you thi... 

Or maybe I'm just over-thinking something which is really, fiendishly, diabolically straight-forward; so remarkably and elegantly simple that we go and make it complicated because we can't see it without thinking "that can't be all there is to it, surely," so we miss what's right on front of us. I've been missing it myself until now, because I only just realised that both uses of the word "relationship" are actually the same, and all this time I've been using it right entirely by accident. 

How about that? 

But here I go getting all meta again. What can I say? It's a long flight, I get bored easily, and it amuses me, so don't expect an apology; I'd have thought that after all we've gone through together you'd have a pretty good understanding of who and what I am; what else did you think I use the meta for?