Oh, my hands can only hold so much
The rules are changing faster than I can learn them, so instead: tea, dragon slaying, and running
It’s a warm, cloudless March Saturday. The kettle is on, and I am finally taking my scheduled midday break. It has been two weeks since I had a proper day off.
On the news: The war continues to escalate — strikes and retaliations, the oil crisis we see on our everyday receipts, the deployment of US Marines, AI-powered warfare. Anthropic was branded a “supply chain risk” for refusing to concede safeguards around domestic mass surveillance and autonomous weaponry. The same tech giant also kindly mapped out which professions will be most impacted by AI — mine included and that of most of my white-collar peers, us fools who believed that a college education would lead to stable, promising careers.
I brew some black tea, slice a lemon. Think I’ll make it iced today.
On my feed: small business owners and artists trying to make a living. Product and event campaigns, new music releases, $99 courses, book signings. Everything is simultaneously frivolous and necessary, I think as I dance to EDM, pre-order a book, enroll in some coaching program, and drink wine by myself, unsure what to do with my frustration, my anxieties, my anger.
My body aches in several places from the CrossFit Open 26.3 workout yesterday. I have unexpectedly become the kind of person who exercises for stress relief.
On the horizon: my friend getting married next year. She sent a photo of herself fitting her beautiful dress. My mother is visiting LA soon, and I have yet to buy my flight ticket. Should have done it sooner. Should have seen the war coming.
Last night, a dream of a terrible windstorm.
The edge of a knife, this life. Despair and hedonism, our Scylla and Charybdis. Steady on, I tell myself every evening when my light burns low. The destination is covered in fog, unplottable, but I must stay the course.
Ah, but where do I offer my precious labor now? What shall I trade for the new currency? Can I bear to barter with it?
On my calendar: a business to build with sheer faith and my bucket of mismatched puzzle pieces. A training shift at the local wine bar. Milestones I promised my clients, deliverable this, KPI that. A literary fest I have yet to prepare for, the dragon of my impostor syndrome to still cut down with a sword. M’s 30th birthday — what a gift. Lunch breaks at noon, lest I forget, as I often do.
Outside, at golden hour, the blissful crickets and resurgence of grass invite me into a reverie; or perhaps they wake me from this leaden one.
I think I’ll go on a quick run. Shake off the overflow. With the trembling ground ahead, it seems wise to train on my feet. We survival, rival, tribal animals.
