looks like rain

i am an emotional person; i cry at the drop of a hat. my eyes fill - and spill over - in sadness, in frustration, in anger, in sympathy, and at the slightest of slights. and my tears, not always well-timed, can overwhelm all attempts at self-control. i clench my fists, bite my lip, and think of better moments, but still they fall.
i have a meeting on monday with the co-director of the organisation i work for.
exception has been taken to my inference that reading about ones planned
redundancy on the company intranet might not be the most courteous way to become informed about one's future.
and yesterday evening, out for drinks and dinner with colleagues and former
colleagues, my ex-manager - who knows me very well indeed - suggested that i spend tomorrow ranting and raving and sobbing and screaming so that i will be drained, and calm, for this minor confrontation.
my husband - poor dear - is already bracing himself.

second helpings

"mine" totally passed me by, here in this country that has never lived the traditions of horns-of-plenty and pumpkin pie.
may "yours" - for you south of the 49th parallel - be fine and festive.
happy thanksgiving!

the yellow jersey

"just remember, once you're over the hill you begin to pick up speed."
-arthur schopenhauer (german philosopher, 1788-1860)

this is the thing: come april, i will be out of work. i believe it's called redundancy.
the minutes of the most recent meeting of the short-sighted-powers-that-be have made this inevitability perfectly clear. it doesn't matter, these days, you see, how efficient and flexible one is, or how loyal, or enthusiastic; all that really counts is how much one costs.
i saw this coming, of course i did; i wear glasses, but i am not blind. i started watching the want-ads a few months back, and have responded more than once, to no avail. my birthdate, black-on-white in my resumé will blow it every time. should i shout "age discrimination"? would it make any difference? all i want is to be evaluated - face to face - on my real merits. assumptions are such unfortunate oversights.
i have no choice but to surrender to the race, and to fix my eyes on the road ahead. i am realistic enough to expect pitfalls, and positive enough to expect - somehow, somewhere - recognition.
this search for a new job is going to be the mont ventoux of my personal tour, i fear, and i hope i can find the stamina i need.

under the falling sky

sunday was, indeed, sunny, and serene, so my patient partner and i headed towards the beemster and the schermer for a wondrous windless afternoon out and about.

the sky and the scenery were mirrored in every stripe and stretch of still water,

and i found myself, for a change, gazing earthward as much as heavenward,

and only the ripples wrinkling the reflections - and the upside-down-ness of
everything -

disclosed the direction of my eyes, and the direction of my camera.

*for you, btezra: because you are, as you once mentioned here, a "sucker for reflex shots~".

shoulder to shoulder

"a friend is someone who sees through you and still enjoys the view."
-wilma askinas

i am thankful, today and every day: for friends close and friends far, friends i can link arms with and friends i've never met, friends lost and friends found. they complete me.
*
happy birthday, rachel!

lo and behold

his eye - only one is open - looks through her and beyond her.
his ears - they are covered tightly - spurn her sweet, sad, treacherous tales.
disdain and distance, though, will never stop the stories, for they spiral, stubborn,
from the dimness, and they are still for him.

the wild blue yonder

red.
i would dye my hair bright red on arrival. i would drink my coffee black - de rigueur - and develop, with possible difficulty, a taste for brown rice and abstract jazz. i might even smoke, if only for effect. i would wear sandals and silver and pierce my ears: once, twice, maybe more. i would use my first name instead of my second. i would seize each day. i would dare.
i had plans.
i was nineteen, and ready for a new me, and i had three days and three nights on the cross-canada train to deliberate my re-creation.
when i stepped onto the platform in vancouver, though, to my dismay, a distant
western aunt - hastily deputised by my worried father - strode forward to greet me, and bustled me off to coquitlam, to a pink chenille bedspread turned neatly down, to old family photographs and anecdotes; i escaped to independence as quickly as i politely could, but the liberation of true anonymity evaporated like the steam in her constant kettle.
my hair remained blonde. i only learned to smoke a decade later in a town in southern holland. the delights of abstract jazz still totally elude me. but three earrings and a tiny tattoo later, i still try to seize every day, and i will always dare, because i can't not.
and i'm still called what i've been called my entire life.
it's who i am, after all.

taken to the cleaners

i really did believe that they were going to wash that man right out of their hair.
i am disturbed - and totally mystified - that they didn't.