Backing track: Enter Shikari - It Hurts
"It's called a changeover," Jack says in Fight Club. "The movie goes on, and nobody in the audience has any idea."
That works way better in a film where the viewer's point of reference is purely visual; did the protagonist's hair just get longer? Are the characters wearing heavier clothes, indicating that glorious summer has clouded into discontented winter? It's easier to obfuscate the passage of time when there's no timestamp shining the objective light of truth against the veneer of subjective artifice.
Blogging does ruin the literary construct so, what is one to do?
Swallow a teaspoon of concrete and harden the fuck up, that's what.
Summer and autumn passed by with the flicker of pages turning past that subtle break where the author spent thousands of words to say nothing of consequence, and the editor said "Yeah, nah, skip to the fucking point." None of which is to say that my adventures over the last six months have been inconsequential; the gulf between experiencing and annunciating them has been a wine-dark sea of troubles filled with slings and arrows which threaten to blot out the sun, and whether the dragons they contain number one or 300 is a story I'll feed piecemeal or à la carte when the maître d' is back from his piss-break and I've finished enjoying my soup. I've continued to fight, because given the options I've had no choice but to keep doing so, but as piss-poor as the effort may have been we've fought in the shade.
I've not been fighting alone tho, because the operative word is 'we', not 'I'. When the going got tough I didn't get going, I certainly didn't go climbing any mountains; I hit the Big Red Button marked Stop, and phoned a friend (or six); for all that I may be singularly competent even I am not so arrogant to believe that I can survive alone. I'd like to say that I never have been, but I'd be lying if I did; younger-Pete was a dumbfuck, and he's learned a lot since between 20 years and 20 minutes ago. He learned a lifetime and an hour ago that the difference between valour and shame is knowing when to stop and ask for help. If a prayer is a wish intended to be fulfilled by a higher power, then who on heaven or earth could rate higher than the gestalt of those few, those happy few, with and unto whom I've shed blood? In this capitalistic age of quid pro quo, could you imagine that anyone might deign answer the call of he who once was favoured, but now cast down, because in failure what the fuck worth have I?
Backing track: We Came As Romans - Learning To Survive
In desperation, and dying hope, I reached out anyway. Much to my chagrin I was wrong; there were more hands reaching back offering help and solace than I could possibly grasp; my cup runneth over.
I didn't build a bridge and get over it; to my shame one was built for me, and I couldn't.
For all that I may have fallen from grace; hands reached out to catch me before I hit bottom, and I still did.
Their reach may have exceeded their grasp, but that's not the point; what mattered to me was that they tried. After all, I'm the one who was falling.
Back in January, I got the arse from the Job That Brought Me Back To Canberra. I've not been subtle about the bullshitfuckery, or the stress, riding that Gravy Train turned out to be; I expended thousands of obfuscated words on the subject over the last twelve months. I reached out and touched the butt, swallowed the hook, was towed by the line, and got dragged down by the sinker; over the months that followed I realised I'd been drawn to the light, but was still in the cold, doing my best to Just Keep Swimming even while I was Drowning in Silence.
I fucked up; I thought I could be a lamplighter and illuminate the path for those who were to follow.
I fucked up; I imagined others would see the truth and follow my example.
I fucked up again and again; I was the dumbfuck who set himself on fire for no one's benefit, let alone his own.
The fault, as always, is my own, and owning it isn't a choice I have the luxury of avoiding so how could I ever try to do so? Everything I have was begged-for, borrowed, or stolen; my time and my mistakes are the only things I can truly claim to own.
Yet the bridges I burned still light the way. It's called a changeover; you have to come to a stop before you can continue.
Backing track: Twenty One Pilots - At The Risk Of Feeling Dumb
Back in February I was on a call with Andrew The Shipwright and mentioned that I was going to have to actually bill him for my time, rather than what I could be bothered to invoice:
"Mate, you looked after me when things went to shit a couple of years back, I can't tell you how much I've appreciated what you've done for us since.
"Look, I should tell you: I reached out to a local mob who specialise in Apple stuff recently; I hope you're not offended, you always said you didn't really do Apple, and you've been pretty busy over the last couple of years..."
"No, of course, no issue. Are they sorting you out?"
"That's the thing, they've not responded, and it sounds like you're going to have some some time on your hands and honestly I'd much rather pay you to do it..."
"Man, I really appreciate that. I won't pretend I know how to do what you're asking, but I've poked similar shit recently and I can work it out. I don't know how long that'll take, but give me a few days. If they don't get back to you before I do I'll absolutely make it work for you, and you know you'll only get billed for what's productive."
I spent a week of research and prototyping, trying things out, wiping it, then doing it better. I bought a second-hand iPhone 11 off my 2022 Padawan to test with, another week getting it right, and after a fortnight of full-time effort I pinged him:
"Did that local mob get back to you?"
"Nope."
"OK, cool. So here's the product, and here's where I've documented the process on your Sharepoint. It turns what used to take ~4 hours into 15-20min."
"Shit, really? Damn! How long did it take, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Better if you don't," I said, "I've invoiced you for 10 hours, plus 2 for the documentation and process workflow. Working it out is on me.
"BTW, the system I used also works for Windows MDM, and I reckon I can set up the same sort of automation in another 5 hours."
"Shit really? Damn! What are you waiting for? Fucking do it!"
So I did.
A couple of months later Andrew needed a server, and a new network, and a partridge in a pear tree, so I spec'd and sold it to him. Quotes approved, orders placed, deliveries pending, Andrew called me:
"So would you come back to Perth to get this all installed or...?"
"Look, I've got my Remote Hands Partner who can get the critical onsite stuff done, but there's enough to do I was thinking it'd be worth hopping on a 'plane. Not something I could justify billing you for, but there's enough meat in this job I was thinking I just might."
"I was thinking too, I reckon it'd be totally worth having you on-site to make sure it gets done right, and I've got a couple of million Qantas Frequent Flyer Points I could throw into the mix..."
So I went.
In the 10 days I spent in Perth I built his new server, rebuilt his network, replaced his internet service, and a dozen things besides. Half-way through I handed him a brand-new iPhone, sat him down in front of the process I'd written up, and got him to test it out.
10 minutes later, sprawled on the concrete next to the rack I was re-cabling, I heard him giggle maniacally.
"Everything OK?"
"This... this used to take me a day to do, and I'd always miss something. Now... now it just fucking works!"
"That IS what you pay me for. So the doco makes sense then?"
He just giggled some more, handed me his personal iPhone and said, "can we get mine done next?"
So we did.
Andrew's a Great Guy.
He introduced me to the client who kept me in beer & skittles through the "Covid Years".
He let me use his Laser Cutter to create my Art Project.
He dragged my burned and broke arse out of the fire when it seemed I'd burned all my bridges behind me.
Whether or not I might have paid it forward, he's gone out of his way to pay it back.
And, to my shame, he's not the only one.
Musical aftermath: Electric Six - Improper Dancing
So here we are, at the punctuated moment that isn't the full-stop at the end of a sentence, so much as the pause connecting one with the next, and allows time to catch one's breath; expressing to the audience that "[this] story isn't over."
That moment in one's story that screams "STOP!", but implies
"CONTINUE!"
