Take Your Ives to Work Day

Quick, what do T.S. Eliot, Franz Kafka and Charles Ives have in common? All three spent a good deal of their careers not in a career in the arts but in button down business roles. Eliot worked for Lloyd's of London. Kafka worked for Assicurazioni Generali, and Ives worked for an American insurance agency. In fact, he is credited for being a pioneer in estate planning as much as he was in music.

Maybe that's why I've been playing a lot of Ives during my work week lately. Ives is so wonderfully unpredictable and downright weird. Chaotic one moment, then pastoral the next and then sounding like backtracking marching bands crashing into each other. Ives' Psalms can be very good for focusing. If you're really focusing, you don't even realize they are in English and they start sounding like a Buddhist chant.

Some of his individual American songs are the most gloriously goofy. Aaron Copland composed his share of wacky tunes, but Ives go even further. Who was Charlie Rutlage? I have no idea, but under Ives' hand, it feels like he might be a character out of Kafka's Amerika.

I've Got the Day Off Today...

...and so does Bow.

Sometimes the Smallest Things

Given the pattern of the past week and a half, I find that I am resorting to an old pattern of the past. Each night I write a few things on a small scrap of paper and put them in my morning fortune box. It may be things I promise to do, or not get caught doing again, or to be grateful for, or not waste time fretting over. Often it helps, sometimes its swept away by an enormous wave of anxiety, or I am too hurried to remember to open it. But usually it does the trick.

Don't Hate Us If You're in the East

This proved to be a perfect, long holiday weekend. I had to laugh when I heard some of my wimpy friends whine about how some of the weather here was "cold and miserable". That translates to being foggy and in the 60s. Personally, I thought it was perfect weather to sleep in late (i.e. 6:45 a.m.), snuggle with my basenji, go for a walk with her in her fleece coat and then come back to snuggle with her over coffee and the Sunday Times.

Thanks for all the comments of support for her great guest blogging. She may do another stint soon. She really is proving to be the dream pooch. She is adjusting quickly to going from being a suburban Chicago girl to a sophisticated Basenji Bay Girl. She's getting more comfortable with the noises and smells of the Mission. Even roaring motorcycles, fire trucks and growling pit bulls. We go one more block on each walk, and she is responding quickly to my leash commands. I don't want to speak too soon, but she is definitely feeling like a keeper.

While I am watching the news about delays to fog at SFO, O'Hare facing many delays and cancellation due to weather and 22 degrees back in Michigan where she was last week, I am so glad she didn't make her long trip last week. Here are just a few shots of our afternoon in the garden where it was nearly 70 degrees and then lounging in the sunny living room as she enjoyed a favorite chew treat. Now it's time to get back to work, but I am pinching myself that I am lucky enough to work from home and with such a sweet, gorgeous companion by my side.

And, of course, we won't be so smug when the rains hit and she has to be coaxed to go out in the three months of drizzle.

Enjoy Gift Bearing Strangeness

Even more than gifts that come on time or early, I love those that come late. Above is a photo I received yesterday honoring my 20th year at work commemorated on September 15 and below a creation made by my sister who is becoming gloriously more eccentric with age. It is made with fabric from drapes in the house we grew up in. I've asked her if it has a name.

UPDATE: An explanation from my sister. The "north 40" is the name for the family land and house we recently sold.

Her name is Norty II. You will find a little ID card in the back of her coat. Of course everything is symbolic. Her "heart" is my key to the North 40, a fan from one of Mama and Camille's Christmas angel projects that I found on my last walk thru of the house and the blue bead was by the side of the porch when I left the last time.

Her hair is from the roll of baling twine in the barn. Her coat is made of various fabrics from the archives. The majority of the pieces are from the living room drapes at the farm and the original drapes at the North 40.

To me the most symbolic pieces are the two urns, the three "webs" representing the three homes that now hold Mama and Daddy's treasures and on the back notice the two birds from the farm house drapes. You only see the wing of one as it flies off into the unknown and you see the other complete bird as it follows.

The day before she was completed the little butterfly appeared from somewhere and I thought it was Mama's, but later Camille said that it was hers.

This was my first opportunity to use my Dremel to drill the holes for the eye hooks in the arms and legs. Its smallest drill bit is the size of a needle.

I'd Rather Imagine What Your Legs Look Like

Another reminder of why I want to continue living in a cooler climate is this article in today's Times about shorts now being acceptable for business wear. The only thing more annoying than a "no pants policy" in an office environment would be one where they play volleyball or other enforced fun activities. I long for a return to the days of men in gray flannel suits.

By the Time I Get to Otavalo

By the time most of you read this, I will be off to the land of cuys, volcanoes and the pan flute. Just when I was starting to get a few Catalan words down, now it will get all muddled up with Quechua, or more accurately Kichwa in this part of the Andes. Perhaps if I'd not fallen asleep when my exes forced me to watch those boring Star Wars (or is it Star Trek) movies, I could have picked up some Huttesse which is supposedly based on Quechua and Aymara.

Have I eaten cuy before? Yes, and the old standby of "sort of like chicken" doesn't apply here. It tastes like greasy, disgusting rodent meat. So even if it is the year of the rat, I will make every effort to avoid it.

Actually, the trip will be focusing on the impact of toxic agri-chemicals, reproductive health, global warming, water harvesting and the Humanist movement. Since I never write about work here (and it's about as far removed from ascots, doorknobs, Weimar culture, and the Criterion Collection as one can get. If anyone is interested, I'd be happy to share details by email.

Oh, and I'll be on the outlook for vicunas for Bryce.

From the Desk of Kafka

JunkThief Gregg woke up one morning to discover that he had turned into an enormous cockroach....

Okay, it may not be as bad as that, but after nearly a decade of working from home while being part of a 147 member global team still makes me feel at times like a variation on Gregor Mendel Samsa or some other Kafka office functionary in an eternal Interzone that is not quite real yet not quite fictional. Conference calls are always the worst, and I am often amazed when people praise me for facilitation skills that I think that I absolutely lack. I've learned to trust pauses and silences, especially when after prodding, people respond "We're writing."

Although I have a dedicated office space in my house, I selfishly (selflessly? self-denyingly), place it in one of the least appealing parts of the house since I didn't want to sacrifice a favorite room for work. I very intentionally avoid spending time on the living room couch, if only to avoid unsolicited assistance from my cat Bunter, but more importantly it feels like I am such a sloth to be working away on a place intended for other activities.

Recently, I seem to gravitate to the dining room/library looking out onto the garden as pictured above. The view is pleasant, though I have to deal with late morning sun, and there aren't the noise and visual distractions of the street from the front of the house.

I actually manage to be surprisingly disciplined on a work hour routine, starting at a business appropriate hour and not doing anything like eating chili while working on an expense report a 9 p.m. (okay, maybe once every quarter).

Having a full month not traveling, getting back into this routine is always hard. And then -- poof -- just when I think I've got it down I'll be back on the road. It's there, I sometimes think, that I seem to be my most productive. As the lyric goes "I was born in the wagon of a travelln' show..." All a junk thief needs to complete the trio is a gypsy and tramp. Any out there?

Out the Door -- Finally

In case anyone remembers this long lingering project, it finally went out the door late, late yesterday. It involves a lot of money if approved, but I'm to a point of neither celebrating its completion or the potential approval. It's just done, and I can finally catch up on all the delayed projects that it pushed back down the line. The only thing worse than a fast approaching deadline is an extended deadline.

Low Rents of Arabia

JunkThief had not heard from Vivian [not his legal name] in a long while, at least not since January or February. So he was a bit surprised by her chatty "whatcha up too?" greeting. "I'm working," JunkThief replied, a bit perturbed that the call came in on his office line.

"Is this your work number? You have so many, I can't keep up. How many do you have now?"

"Four if you count Skype."

"Oh, JunkThief. You're so connected," Vivian railed. "You're at the meat of it, baby."

"It's easier if you call my cell or home number."

"Oh, whatever, I just wanted to say hi. Does your non-profit still work in Egypt?"

"Still? We've not been there since the 1960s," JunkThief said.

"Really? I could swear I remember you going there."

"No, not for work," JunkThief said.

"Mmm...okay. Vince and I are planning to go there and I thought you might have some suggestions. I'm dying to see the pyramids but don't want to die seeing them if you get my drift."

"Like a huge drift of sand."

"Oh, JunkThief, you're such a card. I just thought you might have some suggestions of something plush and not over $200 a night."

"In Cairo?" JunkThief replied.

"Yes, in fucking Cairo! I'm not planning to go to some camel farm."

"No, I don't know off hand. I could suggest some tour operators, if you like."

"So, when are you coming to San Diego?"

"Sometime."

"I get the distinct feeling you don't like San Diego sometimes. Remember when I lived in Bonsall and we went over to the Capri Lounge in Oceanside?"

"Yes," said JunkThief.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I remember it."

"Well, you're not very chatty today."

"I'm working," JunkThief said.

"Oh, get over it. I'll find my own fucking room on Orbitz!"

Thirty Percent

It's amazing what you can see on lunch hour in my neighborhood, especially the ever evolving graffiti around the construction zone at the City College expansion on Valencia. Registration starts in a couple of weeks, so all of this will likely soon be coming down. I can't say the sentiment above or sloppy grammar resonates with me, though the snide comment in the lower right probably does.

These days I find that I am moving away from doing anything for the right amount of money to paying any amount of money for the right thing. I am not rolling in it these days but much better off than ever before. I got the news today that my unit produced 30 percent more income than last year. Reason for some level of celebration and a bit mind-boggling with all the diversions of the past twelve months.

Gentle Thoughts, Gentle Thoughts

I Came Very Close, Then I Changed My Mind

If there was any question that this is the Monday of a week where I feel stressed by the need to have things in order to be away from work for seven days, any doubt was eased by 8:02 a.m. Why is it that the most ridiculously inappropriate job applicants always come in before you've started the second cup of coffee.

"The best part of my last job? The people. I just love people. I'm a people person." (I didn't invent that. She actually said it.)

Add on to that the fact that our server crashing five times during a very contentious 90 minute Skype conference call with people in three countries and four time zones, and I was fried well before 1 p.m. (And at 7:05 p.m. PST as I am writing this some fool is calling me on my home office phone.) I was trapped on the phone for 4.75 hours! Anyone who knows and loves me can confirm that any phone call that lasts more than 90 seconds is torture to me. I spit on the grave of Alexander Graham Bell! Did I mention that my external hard drive crashed last week, and I had to stand in line for 45 minutes to take that in for repairs.

And the proposal mentioned last week keeps getting more complex as the deadline keeps getting pushed back. Don't give me more time, I just want the damned thing out the door.

Yes, I wielded that thing seen in the picture for a few minutes as ideas filled my tiny little brain, and not to shave off the facial hair. For those who said my scowling pictures made them shudder to think what I looked like when I was not happy, well here you go! And then I took a deep breath and focused my thoughts on fawns grazing in an April meadow. Positive thoughts, positive thoughts...

Reproductive Rights for Cat Partners!

Besides the referred to movie, these illustrations have nothing to do with this post besides the fact that they were sights from this evening's walk as this post formed in my over-worked little brain. This is how my mind works. Talk about Strange Maps!

I’ve been watching Cat Girl Kiki this evening with the English subtitles turned off. For some reason it seems to make a heck of a lot more sense that way. It’s a good alternative to what’s been going on the rest of this week. Something called work. It’s pretty typical that I put in 50-60 hours a week. Not exactly the killer hours of my youth but probably above average. This week I’ve probably already put in 80 hours and plan to have a somewhat saner Friday. I had a coworker in town this week for a variety of foundation visits and work on a killer proposal. If I have to utter the words “reproductive health” or “uterine prolapse” one more time I will friggin’ freak out.

Non-profit culture often means that visiting coworkers do homestays when they are in town, something that I do not offer the way I used to, but this visitor is one I liked and we had a shitload of issues to cover. That meant 7 a.m. to 12:30 a.m. workdays, but we got a lot accomplished.

In the midst of all of that we had a variety of discussions on some of the most random of topics and the intent behind words. One phrase that we analyzed or over-analyzed is the term is reproductive health itself. Although I’ve raised a few million for this topic, I have never taken that much time to think about my own reproductive health. Guess what, I really don’t ever plan to use my reproductive organs for, well, you know that. So does that mean that I have no reproductive health? I’m sure that Surgeon General nominee James Holsinger (sorry, I refuse to refer to him as “Dr.” since we’re on the subtleties of nomenclature.) would say that my reproductive health needs a good dose of Drano to use his grotesque plumbing metaphors. I guess he gets out the monkey wrench when he and Mrs. Holsinger are feeling a little jiggy. If you aren’t aware of this quack and have any concern about the future of public health, be sure to go to the Human Right Campaign’s site and send this letter to your member of Congress.

Another word of annoyance that came up in our conversation is “partner.” When supposedly progressive employers hold gatherings for staff and their families, everyone is encouraged to “bring your partner.” Does this offend me because I don’t have one or because I haven’t gotten laid in a while? Or is it something deeper, more primal and condescending on the order of “Oh, since we’re so progressive we’ll call our husbands and wives partners so it feels as if we’re all equal.” It really feels like asking people with gaping head wounds whether they prefer to have cocoa or mint tea while waiting in line in the emergency room.

Mind you, I am all for employers embracing a comprehensive definition of domestic partners including allowing unmarried straight people to claim their significant others. However, I doubt that even the most progressive employer would allow me to claim my main squeeze of the past 18 years, my cat Bunter, as my domestic partner. That thought has certainly entered my head since he’s due for a check up at the vet in July. If, in the perfect Kafkaesque/Cat Girl Kiki world, I woke up tomorrow to find Bunter transformed into the adorable Yoshiro, the male lead of that movie, I’d sign him up in a second. On second thought, I love my cat partner just the way he is.

Returning Soon

It involves 36 pages, 44 footnotes, three appendixes and seven figures if successful. So JunkThief is a bit lax in reporting this side of the world for a few days until this puppy gets out the door Thursday evening or first thing Friday. Wish us luck.

The World in My Head

While this shot might suggest that I’m standing by to respond to QVC viewer calls, this has actually been my communication web this morning as I’ve swapped between calling card and Skype calls. After more than a decade of working from home (and being the first in my organization to do so), I’m now part of one of four North American time zones featuring home-based staff. We’ve been increasingly urged to adjust to a Skype-based reality (which, being with an organization that employs people with at least 23 languages I’ve heard pronounced Sky-pay, Skipee, Skeepie…)

Though I could still romanticize about a Princess phone I am still not one to embrace Skype conference calls. The dual headset thing is a bit spooky, since it feels that my co-workers are literally in my head. And, yes, I often walk around with the Skype and cordless headsets on at once.

Yesterday, I was on a conference call with domestic staff and people in Ouaga, Quito and Port-au-Prince. At one point, the main thing you could hear were the sounds of Haitian tuk tuks honking their horns, kids playing soccer in Cleveland Heights and birds chirping in DC’s Adams Morgan district. My neighborhood contributed the clinging of a Honduran ice cream vendor’s bell that could have convinced people I was in Tegucigalpa until a crack head started screaming to his gal-pal, “I gonna cut you up you filthy ho. I mean it. I mean it. I know you don’t think so, but I’m gonna.” It was finally drowned out by the sound of the MUNI 48 bus passing by as we heard about the release of the new HR manual.

And, no, I still refuse to become a Vulcan with a RAZR phone.