There’s no easy way to say this, but I’m abandoning you and going incommunicado for about a week, after which I’ll return with the very best gifts of all: even more posts. Improved frequency is only part of what’s coming down the pipeline, because I’m hoping the content itself will expand to territories different and unexplored.
But make no mistake. The site as a whole will continue along its current flight path, far, far away from the province of social media. At the same time, though, I wouldn’t qualify it as anti-social media, since it’s still a public destination. Instead I’d like to carve out my own space and pioneer the notion of semi-social media: a way to keep the “me” in media while placing you well on the other side of the storefront window. Now, as ever, I write to keep the noggin chugging along. That’s the guiding star, and there’s a resultant product you can peruse, but I absolutely do not want to know you’re reading.
As for what you’re welcome to browse, albeit only under cover of secrecy, I’ve got an upcoming trip to Indianapolis that promises to be a rich vein of raw material. It’s been four years since I left the Midwest, and I was certain I had said my goodbyes, but in the parlance of Lost, it appears the island isn’t done with me yet. I’m going under the auspices of a business trip, a chance to hone my “craft,” which means hitting CTRL-C, CTRL-V in startlingly innovative ways, and how a Train concert will further this, I don’t exactly know. Be assured, however, I will get to the bottom of who in fresh hell Mr. Mister is, and why he’s on the radio and/or stereo.
Three paragraphs earlier, I mentioned the content you read here may change, and this is why. For one thing, I suspect I’ll be traveling more. I’ve also noticed my capacity for people has increased slowly, imperceptibly these past few months, with the urge to disappear substantially curbed. And when you combine travel with this newfound ability to tolerate company–enjoy it, even–well, revolution may be at hand.
Think of this as a trilogy or, even better, a thrillogy, because talking about the job move for a third straight post must be as riveting for you as it is for me. It’s so riveting, in fact, that I pledge to you this will be the last evening devoted to the topic. Promise. What’s been compelling to me is the way the contours of communication have shifted recently, in many cases toward wholly unexpected and refreshing avenues.
Throughout this episode, I’ve sought to limit communication and try to balance dissemination with courtesy. When I resigned, for instance, I reached out to a few people in tandem to blunt whatever douche factor might’ve been associated with the announcement. A small group was all that was needed, too, because the wire–the same infrastructure that powers the rumor mill–would invariably take care of the rest, and sure enough the news was out in a day or two.
You’d think I’d want to shout about it from the rooftops, but the reason for being reticent is simple, really. I’ve been on the other side, frequently, and I remember one particular colleague at a past gig who droned on and on about his new opportunity, reveling in his impending exit to the point where I told him flat out, “Hey, I’ve still got to be here.” You understand, I’m sure. It’s, like, I get it. I’m happy for you. Now get the fuck out. That’s why I’ve largely kept my mouth shut unless questioned and, although this may be overboard, I’ve vetoed certain traditions. Absolutely no happy hour, for starters. Also prohibited is the marginally sappy goodbye e-mail with an inspirational quote. And the veto stamp won’t even begin to dry until I’m able to make a quiet exit, stage left.
Now, I don’t know if this is a direct payoff of this approach, but the conversations I’m having are fresh and frank. The sentiments certainly run the gamut–happy, sad, forthright, oblique, urgent–and the tone also varies wildly, loud and boisterous in one moment, hushed and conspiratorial the next, but the authenticity is shared. Some of these talks have even bordered on the confessional, with secrets that I’m bound, honored, to guard. Would it have been possible to cultivate this directness from the get-go? I’m guessing not, but it would’ve been something. Perhaps I’ll try resigning on day one.
Call it a concession, if you must, but the headline you see at the top of this page is the closest I’ll ever get to a “status update.” It hasn’t changed in weeks, and it’s dense and obtuse, a secret I share with myself. Clearly it doesn’t adhere to the traditional notion of a status update, which suits me just fine–my goal isn’t to offer you an unfettered play-by-play of what I’m doing or how I’m feeling, after all, but to preserve a one-way conduit of information curated with an iron fist. If you think of Facebook as a party lined with Polaroids, and Twitter a bohemian carnival of oversharing, then all of this–the splendor you see before you–is a police state.
And the mandate for tonight is to close the file on my recent job hunt. You know the arc. The follow-up e-mails to the interviews, which I pored over late into the night and then let sit until the morning, when the timestamps would look a lot more reasonable. The waiting, punctuated by moments when I wondered what I could’ve handled better to lessen the waiting. Then, the conviction that I had done all I could, that I was the shopper here, and that some things are and aren’t meant to be. The browser tab devoted to Gmail, one eye fixed on it at all times, almost willing it to change from “Gmail – Inbox” to “Gmail – Inbox (1),” only to find the (1) was for the weekly specials e-mail from Southwest Airlines. You may recall how you camped out by your mailbox after you sent in your college applications, fingers crossed tightly for a fat envelope. It’s the modern retelling of that.
But eventually the key e-mail makes it to the inbox. There’s the initial pitch. The counter. The counter to the counter. And finally, finally the formal offer letter. I thought it would be easy to sign it, break ties and move on without a second thought, but this wasn’t the case. I remember clutching a pen and hesitating at the dotted line. I remember drafting my resignation letter, then hovering over the “send” button, heart in my throat, rationalizing why it took so much effort to just click. Sign and send I did, though, which brings us back to the headline. It’s the sound of an elevator reaching its destination, an oven proclaiming it’s ready, the clink of more cheddar, a timer fully unwound. Ding.