I Am A Pot-Boiler Of A Zit And Some Pessoa

I have been terribly distracted over the last few days, which is part of the reason for my lack of entries over the last while. A few days ago, I received an e-mail while I was at work, which was the catalyst for said distraction. The individual who sent the e-mail and I wrote back and forth a couple of times, and then I called her at the telephone number she had given me so that we could confirm a telephone meeting for the next afternoon. Then, I filled out the appropriate form to request permission to have the following afternoon off and had it signed by two of my supervisors. All of that led to my taking Wednesday afternoon off work so that I could attend to my telephone meeting. When I came back to work on Thursday morning, one of my two signing supervisors asked me how things had gone the previous afternoon, and I said that they went well.

The likelihood is that, by now, most of you have stopped reading out of complete and utter boredom, and those of you who are left are wondering why the hell you're still here. Don't worry. It gets better. Honest.

Back to the matter at hand... Due to the e-mails and getting the supervisors' permission for leave from work, I became quite distracted. To illustrate my distraction, on Wednesday morning, I left my house as usual to catch my morning bus to work. The weather was painful. It wasn't the usual biting-cold painful. It had warmed up enough that what would have been snow had melted, and then re-frozen, so I was being pelted with zinging chunks of ice. I was glad when I found myself finally standing in the bus shelter, because ice shards being blown at a high velocity into my face was a more than uncomfortable way to start my morning. It was then that I realized I had left my backpack in my apartment. I never leave my backpack in my apartment. It's like another appendage to me. With the Fiery One away, that meant that there was no one at home at 7:30 am to let me back into the apartment building. I panicked at the thought of being stuck out in weather that, quite literally, blew chunks.

I had to wake up my building manager to let let me back into my apartment (he was quite good about it considering how long I had to stand outside his door knocking repeatedly), I grabbed my backpack, and made the second bus just in time, managing to get to work only a few minutes late. Being late was really distressing, because I did not want to be caling any more attention to myself than I already had the day before.

On top of forgetting my backpack and missing the bus, my distraction caused a few other problems. I spelled several words incorrectly in documents at work (which simply does not happen -- I'm a spelling freak by nature), I forgot to eat supper two nights running, I sent a personal e-mail to the wrong person and then to myself before sending it on to the right recipient, and get this, I put face cream on my toothbrush. And I didn't notice for the first half of my usual brushing routine. I just thought the lack of mintiness meant that the Sensodyne was really working.

Any of you who are still reading must be wondering when I'm going to tell you the reason for my distraction. Yes, you are thinking, it sucked having ice chunks blow into your face and getting locked out of your apartment and brushing your teeth with face cream, but WHY ARE WE BOTHERING WITH ALL THIS?

To be truthful, I think I've been skirting the issue up until this point because it makes me nervous. The e-mails and the afternoon off work and the telephone meeting all have one thing in common: I was contacted by a media organization about blogging. (Just for the record, this is Deron's fault, but I'm okay with that, because he aided in making me feel all important and shit, which I always like).

See, this in itself didn't worry me too greatly, because I won't be going on the air or anything stupid like that. I don't have absolute anonymity with this blog, but what anonymity I do have I would like to hold onto. I have a few regular readers and most of my friends know about this site, but I don't necessarily want my real name publicly associated with this business. If you've been a long-time reader or have spent time delving into my archives, you can probably guess that I wouldn't want my mother or my grandparents or such like finding out about this place. In the past, I've given this some thought, because my brother and some old friends from my former religion-based social realm know about it and read here occasionally, but they, I don't think, would be/are too shocked by the content. I've generally come to the conclusion that whatever happens happens, and tough titty for me if I don't like the consequences. The telephone call from the media place made me think extra hard about it, though. What if?

When I asked for time off work earlier this week, I had already been overheard through the cloth walls of my cubicle saying words like "interview" and "online" and "radio" into the telephone, so I was obliged to be at least somewhat truthful when I gave my reason for taking the following afternoon off. There was some excitement about my being on the radio, which I had to immediately quell by explaining that no, I would not be on the radio and that I was only having the meeting to help with some background material for a story proposal, and also that I was only doing so in a strictly anonymous capacity for reasons I could not disclose. Talk about developing that air of mysteriousness I used to wish I had in high school. On the morning following the meeting, one of my supervisors asked me how it went, and then he said these words, and I am so not kidding: how was your "meeting"? And, by the way, I think I know what this is about. He actually made those bunny quotes with his hands when he said "meeting'. And then he winked at me. I really wish I was kidding.


I'm not a Catholic, but I internally made the sign of the cross and thanked my foresight for having me remove whatever content from this site that I could ferret out that could possibly be incorrectly construed. I don't intend to hurt anyone with what I write here, but after the call from the media company and the explanations I had to give to my supervisors, I took a second extra-critical eye to this place. I cleaned out a few things. I tweaked this and that.

But I don't know what to do now. I am not going live on any program, so I don't have to worry about outting myself publicly. I guess that this has just made me take a closer look at what it is that I am doing here. I am not going to quit by any means. As much as I worry about certain individuals finding out about this site due to the level of personally sensitive information, they are no more likely to find this place now than they were when I began (unless you count the possibility of Mr. Supervisor having found me out, but let's banish that really squirmy thought elsewhere, shall we?). Frankly, I don't know what it is that keeps me coming back here. I don't make a single cent from it, and I usually get very little feedback on it aside from the Fiery One. I suppose it has at least a little to do with something I mentioned to the media-lady: It's like coming out of the closet with the door half-closed.

My distraction is about the what-ifs. What if my family, aside from my brother, reads this? What if my wink-wink-nudge-nudge supervisor has read or is reading this? (Hello, Mr. Supervisor. If you are here, can we just pretend this never happened?). Then again, none of these worries are anything new. They've been with me since the beginning and will likely continue unresolved for the life of this project. Ain't that sunny.

I feel like I'm a big, pot-boiler of a zit just brought to a pulsating head.

"To not think of anything is metaphysics enough (excerpted from The Keeper of Sheep)" by Fernando Pessoa

English poems by Pessoa

I know I've said this before, but you really should go read Disco the Kid. He kicks ass.

Arts Poetica also kicks ass, in a a poetry kind of way.

A brief look at language and postlanguage poetry.

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The Lady Bird, The Fiery One's Back, And Bird Poems

I'm Not What Some May Think I Am