Sick Transit

I'm writing application letters and revising my resume to submit for marketing jobs. The current one I'm working on is for a position I've already submitted for but has been reposted. The company I've got a contract with hasn't given me feedback on the work I've submitted to them, and since approving the work is the gating function to me doing anything more I've been idle for the past two weeks--rattling around the house, disappointing the cat, and wishing Trey would call.

Last Tuesday, I dropped by with a friend of mine, a 70-something theater director who was auditioning me for an upcoming show, with 20 minutes notice. I knew how much she loved the old man, and so I wanted to bring her something wonderful in hopes that the wonderfulness would rub off on me and I'd be seen in a better light. In hopes that the better light would stick when she thinks of me.

She burbled and cooed and so did the director. As a gift, it was a huge success.

Then, on Friday, she came to dinner with my friends downstairs. I wasn't invited. But apparently, Trey was expecting me to drop by and say hi if I was home. I sat upstairs from them watching Miyazaki movies while they ate and laughed below. When I heard the gate to the street scrape shut, I folded over and sobbed.

I love her, and this is my tar baby of a situation. She trusts her fear of me and believes separation will keep her safe. When she looks at me on Skype, she can't control her love for me from coming out and in the conflict between her desire for connection and her belief that such connection is dangerous is too much for her delicate Northern system to handle and she bursts into tears. At the sight of me. So she does better IMing me when she infrequently does.

I texted her, "Did you leave?" She typed at me from the going away train the mind reading double bind above (in 160 characters or less).

Jack, the gypsy husband of my friend downstairs, tells me when I call him that I'll be very surprised when things work out for the better for everyone if I just give things time to sort themselves out. And still I ask the universe, "What could possible be the benefit to running the particular line of code I've been programmed with that (1) wants to be with the woman of his dreams, (2) has shown himself in his most broken state and caused her to fear for her life and sanity, and (3) works to be a better man while his efforts don't figure in the equation of what would bring him back to the woman he loves."

What benefit to the development of the greater human operating system is the skunk works project that runs in me and when will the guy charged with debugging me get back from lunch?