The Geek Icon
A dream journal entry about little balsa wood ship models and poetry.
The stress levels are still high for Miss Geek Icon. I feel a bit bad for complaining, because I know there are people out there in the world who get up at the crack of dawn every day and put in a lot of hours for their job. I'm stressed out, but I still get to come into work at 9:30 on most days. (On the other hand, I often don't leave until 7-8 pm and I eat lunch at my desk while I code.)
Peace of mind has been in scant supply lately. Last night I was the last person in the office, doing a crappy job of debugging my code and nearly sobbing in frustration because I'd do things like compile the wrong project and wonder why things weren't working (five times over). My right shoulder has a cramp most days, and I'm constantly adjusting my sitting position to figure out what's causing the RSI. Then my gel-filled wrist support thing broke open and I've been spending the past week trying to code with little white goobers all over my hands.
I'm just trying to hang on to my sanity long enough for another person to be hired, and even that won't take much pressure off initially because I'll have to do training and support for a month or so.
I've been spending a lot of time fantasising about Mr Wiggins finishing his doctorate and getting a cushy job so I can be a kept woman. I don't think I want to work again, ever. I want to just stay at home, read, draw, write stuff and make up roleplaying plots and characters. I want to go for hikes again.
It was funny, though. Last night, after the aforementioned crumby job of frantic coding and debugging for the 9 am meeting I had this morning, I slept really deeply and calmly. In the early morning hours I had the most peaceful dream I've had in a long time.
In my dream I was tired of responsibility, so I went to Frank Paynter's house, when I knew he would be out of town. I just sat down in a quiet room with a big window that looked out on the yard. I was sitting in front of a desk, and on the desk was a poem Frank had written about Catalina Island. I decided I wanted to write a poem about Catalina, too, but I couldn't remember back that far (I honestly haven't been to Catalina since I was a toddler, just spitting out my first sentences-- my parents have one of those parent stories about me being exceedingly confused by a sea plane landing there). My dream vision went dark as I tried to push back through my memories, and I remembered a real event from my days of living on a sailboat. It was on one of our longer sailing trips down the coast, to San Diego or Redondo. I had woken up either late at night or early in the morning and climbed up on deck. The auto pilot was attached to the wheel and keeping it steady, and I think my mom was out on watch, sleepily lounging in the cockpit. It was just the darkness, and the sounds of the sea, quiet and peaceful, and I felt okay as soon as I saw my mom and felt the wind on my face.
Back in dream-mind again, I started to write a poem about my memory. And then I built the frame of a sailboat out of balsa wood and left it on Frank's desk for him.