Mars Saxman / Archives

Saturday, the 31st of March, 2001

It being a Friday, I went out to the Mercury last night, and experienced an evening uncommonly full of conversation. First Jacqueline snagged me (dressed all in silver, with new tall-heeled silver boots to match - a lovely sight); we ended up talking for an hour or so, with interruptions for various extremely danceable songs. Later I went over to say hello to Melanie; Mr. Bryan Lovely and the ubiquitous Graves joined us, the latter communicating exclusively through gestures; we all headed out for breakfast when the club closed and chattered away over pancakes and bacon until well after five. I ended up dancing a mere dozen or so songs, far less than usual. Sometimes the club is all about the music and movement, and sometimes it's just an excuse to hang around and talk.

It was the kind of evening that makes adulthood worthwhile.

While out shopping this afternoon I encountered a girl who was convinced not only that I knew her, but that we had in fact spent some significant quantity of time together the previous evening. In addition to the fact that I don't recall ever having seen her face before, that I know exactly what I was doing last night and with whom, and that she doesn't appear even to be old enough to obtain entrance into the club, I don't recall having met anyone named "Vanessa" in several years. Now I'm faced with a difficult question - was she trying to make my acquaintance via the dubious expedient of pretending she had already done so, or has my memory gone frightfully leaky and embarassed me?

Friday, the 30th of March, 2001

The dreams seem to have gone away. This is a relief. I don't know what brought them on. I can't explain why they bother me so much, largely because I can't conceive of any other way of relating to them. I never remember the dreams; I just wake up with the sense that my brain has gone haywire and the world is a bit cockeyed. I don't have the surreal cinematic experience people report - just the memory of having had the experience with none of its substance.

I am vexed and uncertain. By many measures I have a good job. I am paid well, I experience no physical discomfort, the hours are reasonable and the combination of money and free time leaves me plenty of opportunity to pursue whatever it is that I want to do to entertain myself.

But I hate it. It's a miserable job and I can hardly stand it. It's a waste of time, it's boring drudgery, and it makes no real difference to anything but my paycheck whether I succeed at what I'm doing or not. I'm not changing the world. I'm not even making a dent in it.

Is it too much to ask that my job be a meaningful part of my life? Is it not enough that it pays the bills with plenty left over, that it doesn't eat up all my time, that it causes me no harm, that my work hurts nobody and does not destroy the planet? Why can't I be satisfied to live my life in my free time and just use my job as a way to pay the bills? Where did this expectation come from and why can't I shake it?

Were my expectations too large, or have they become too small? Why was I so certain I would change the world somehow, and why so sure now that the world is impervious to change?

I went to see Gladiator last night at the Cinerama with the usual Thursday-night movie gang (eight or ten of us instead of the usual couple dozen). Frankly, I was disappointed. The opening battle with the barbarians set up an atmosphere of tension and realism that simply wasn't sustained through the rest of the film. Interactions between characters seemed more Hollywood than Rome; it was hard to imagine powerful, ruthless political figures acting with the sort of sentimental bravado demonstrated. I couldn't believe that Commodus, were he so reckless as to go into the arena and fight with a gladiator, would actually be allowed to do so - it'd be a little like John Kennedy stopping his motorcade and grabbing a gun for a one-on-one shootout with Lee Harvey Oswald. Nor could I accept Marcus Aurelius crying at Commodus' speech just before his death - any man able to rule the Roman Empire for a quarter century would surely have developed far more hardness of heart than necessary to deal with a disappointed son.

Every conversation aspired to be a Great Speech. Dramatic pauses, high-contrast lighting, and rapid camera cuts punched the tension up so high that it shook the life out of the actual words. The conversation between Proximo and Maximus before they leave for Rome is a particularly pointless example; the men stalk about in the half-light, turning and pacing, as though something frightfully tense and significant is going on when they're basically just exchanging trivialities.

The emperor Commodus was the most troublesome character; it was hard to take anything he said with the gravity which was apparently intended. It was also hard to tell whether we were supposed to despise him or feel sorry for him; either way, he failed. He had too much savvy and ruthlessness to really behave like such a pathetic, sulky wimp.

That said, when the characters shut up and let their actions speak, it was beautiful, energetic, and fun. The battle with the barbarians was superbly rendered; you felt Rome's power, you understood why they conquered everything. (I'll admit, I couldn't help but see echoes of the Seattle Police during the 1999 WTO protests in the lines of marching Roman infantry with their shields, helmets, and rhythmic stomping, and that sent more of a chill up my spine than the ominous music did.) The gladiatorial fights were appropriately ruthless and desperate; these were games played for keeps, and the participants took them on accordingly. The variety of weapons, ingenious and quick-witted fighting approaches, and skilled direction combined for thrilling action scenes. The cinematography drenched everything in vivid light. The computer-rendered scenes of Rome were not perfect but did their job well, and the sets created a slightly familiar, believable environment without slipping into overdone kitsch.

I wouldn't have been disappointed with strained plot or dialogue in a Schwarzenegger-type action movie, and in retrospect that's probably what Gladiator really was. It just didn't present the usual action-movie cues, letting me know that I was supposed to sit back and munch the popcorn and watch the pretty pictures and shut up about the anachronisms already. Viewed as an action movie it was unusually good - fresh and unusual, dynamic, and well executed. I would have enjoyed it a lot more had I not been fooled into thinking it was also a serious drama.

(If it actually was supposed to be a serious drama, all I can say is - next time, Mr. Ridley Scott, get a better scriptwriter.)

I can see why people liked Russell Crowe's performance.

Connie Nielsen has Angelina Jolie's lips. This makes her very nice to look at.

Is it just me, or does that "Pearl Harbor" trailer get longer, louder, and more cloyingly sentimental every time you have to sit through it? I've had enough with the sappy patriotism already - if the point wasn't made the first dozen times they did a slow-motion scan of a bullet-pocked flag, it was beaten over my head with a steel chair by that exploding ambulance. After that, the monotonous, treacly score just makes my teeth hurt.

Wednesday, the 28th of March, 2001

I went out last night, but my heart wasn't really in it. I danced a bit - the music was good - but left after an hour.

Carla liked my outfit. So did I, but hearing it from someone else made me happy.

I slept poorly last night - more dreams, endless dreams. Frustrating dreams. Go away, dreams, I'm tired of this. Let me have my sound empty sleep back. Stop invading my brain when I can't protect myself.

I struggled with the build system all day yesterday and again today. This is three full days of no progress, just because the test app won't build. This is one of the "sometimes" in which I hate my job. There's so much slop between the moments of bliss (such as they are) that I grow uncertain of their existence.

Out to coffee at the Aurafice tonight, though I don't think I'll go dancing afterward. I'm a little blue, I think. I hope it fades soon. Maybe that's reason enough to hit the clubs and get my feet moving.

Tuesday, the 27th of March, 2001

I had lunch with Josh Deinsen today at Mama's Mexican Kitchen, across the street from home. It was one of those fascinating conversations that leaps straight into the world of ideas and never comes back. We talked about everything from suburban life to high-school demographics by way of flying cars and France. It was a peculiar meal in that as I walked back to work (an hour late) my brain felt that it had absorbed more my stomach.

I have had friends about whom I knew almost nothing, simply because we never managed to stop talking about abstracts and ideas long enough to share bits of our personal lives or histories. I gravitate toward people with whom this sort of connection occurs. But I wonder: is it the person who interests me, or the immensely satisfying cerebral jolt that comes from the infusion of new ideas? Is that distinction even meaningful?

I won my first real victory in the Monday night pool group last night. I've come out on top before, but always because my opponent scratched the 8-ball - technically a win, but not very satisfying. Well, for my first game last night, everything just worked - my shots went straight, the angles added up, the leaves worked out well - and I sank the 8 with four balls on the table. A comfortable win.

Of course, I won the next game on an 8-ball scratch, and lost every one after that, so it was pretty clearly a fluke. Still, it's nice to win every now and then. I'm usually happy just to pull off a stylish loss, since everyone else there is so much better at the game than I am, but sometimes losing every game gets to be a drag.

I spent an hour in Musicwerks and came home with some new CDs:
VNV Nation - Empires
Apoptygma Berzerk - Welcome to Earth
Beborn Beton - Truth
Assemblage 23 - Failure
Sisters of Mercy - A Slight Case of Overbombing

Sunday, the 25th of March, 2001

Yesterday afternoon I put on my old beat up jeans and boots, went downstairs, and worked on my Samurai for the first time in a few months. The lug nuts were indeed torqued on tighter than I was able to budge, so I drove by the Midas shop, which helpfully loosened them for free. The pads were in sad shape - they should have been replaced thousands of miles ago. I've had the replacement pads in my closet for over a year, but for one reason or another did not manage to get it done. Well, this was as long as I could wait - there was no asbestos at all left on the pads. It was bare metal scraping on the rotors. I felt stupid when I saw that; the same thing happened to Kelly's Mercury, so you'd think I would know better by now. The job was straightforward once I figured out how to compress the brake pistons and make room for the new pads. Now there's one more bit of my jeep I won't have to worry about for a few years.

I woke this morning with the remnants of a dream. This is three days in a row, and it's starting to bother me. I hope it goes away soon - dreams bother and upset me and are generally a bad way to start the day.

Today has been a maintenance day: laundry, dishes, picking up around the house. A brief rainstorm set a mood of wonderful grey drama.

Friday, the 23rd of March, 2001

I had a dream last night. I can't remember it now, of course, but the fact that I dreamed at all (or, more properly, was aware of said dream) is extremely unusual and somewhat unsettling.

I plan to fix my jeep's brakes tomorrow, but the last time the lug nuts were removed was when the Les Schwab folks installed new tires. I suspect they will be extremely difficult to loosen. I wonder how much Midas charges to loosen up a set of lug nuts? It seems silly to even ask.

Is it a bad idea to think about learning a new musical instrument when I hardly manage to keep in practice on the ones I already play?

Thursday, the 22nd of March, 2001

Around two thirty yesterday afternoon I was ordered to stop working and head for GameWorks, a sort of Chuck E. Cheese for grownups. I'm not much a one for video games or commercial entertainment palaces of this sort, but when the manager of your group (i.e. your boss' boss) tells everyone "get out of here, go play, and have some beer tokens", it's best not to argue. Besides, it turned out to be relaxing and fun.

The best game was half an amusement park ride. Four large-screen TVs stacked one atop another created a fifteen or twenty foot video wall. Each of four players sat in a chair mounted on a vertical track. As the hot air balloon each player controlled rose and fell on the screen, their chair rose and fell with it. Points were scored by rising above another player and landing atop their balloon - thus punctured, the victim promptly crashed to the floor and had to wait for a new balloon to be inflated. The zooming up and down plus the giggle factor of the game's inherent silliness left us all grinning.

Wednesday evening means seagoth coffee at the Aurafice Cafe, which was as usual hot, crowded, and noisy. In spite of receiving numerous compliments on my new boots (for which my ego was properly thankful) the "vibe" didn't feel quite right and I headed over to the Vogue a bit early. This was good. The boots were as danceable as I'd hoped, and for the first time ever I danced on the raised platform by the mirrors. I'd never had the guts to put myself on public display (such as it is) before, and it actually felt pretty good.

Maybe it's just part of the continuing process of "breaking free and being me" that has been going on for months now, or maybe it has something to do with the particular magical experience on my trip to Texas, but I feel like a door in my head has been kicked open. I can now dance whether there's anybody else on the floor or not, and I no longer need a couple drinks before feeling comfortable doing so. I've become more outgoing, maybe a bit more silly, and a lot less afraid of annoying people or looking bad. I feel a burning vitality, a breathing rush. I have discovered the scent of things; the little pleasures of everyday sensation stand out as valuable in spite of their ordinariness.

This will fade, but I'll remember it.

Wednesday, the 21st of March, 2001

I left work a little blue last night. Bad things happen when I reflect too deeply on the career I once thought of as a vocation. I miss the passion and energy I once felt, but it is nearly impossible to sustain the illusion that the work I do has any chance at inflicting meaningful change on the world long enough actually complete a project. I know, I know - don't do it because you want to succeed, do it because you enjoy doing it. The problem is, I don't enjoy doing it unless I truly believe I will succeed, and the more I learn about the way the real world works, the harder it is to believe that success is even possible.

So I work for money, not for a living. Then I go home, cook myself an interesting dinner, make myself as beautiful as I can, go out and dance, dance, DANCE to beautiful, dark, rhythmic music until the night ages. And on the weekends I find little adventures, create little pretty things, enjoy the city where I live. It's not a bad life, really; as lives go it's actually one of the best. I just always thought there was going to be more to it.

So I go on dancing, and living, and waiting for inspiration.

Tuesday, the 20th of March, 2001

The air was clean and beautiful yesterday.

I felt cool and stylish wandering around in my new boots. Confidence comes from within, but nice clothes can make it easier to find.

Sunday, the 18th of March, 2001

A quick visit to the Fluevog store on First and Stewart, and now I have new boots. They look something like this, only they're a gorgeous deep burgundy and the stitching is black. They hug my calf, coming up to six inches below my knee, and feel more like an extension of my leg than a shoe.

These are the nicest boots and perhaps also the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn. They're surprisingly light and make me feel like dancing.

My old steel-toed Doc Marten clones, picked up in a little shop near Camden Market back in 1996, have not been wearable in polite company for nearly a year. Their replacement is long-planned and welcome.

Saturday afternoon was a perfect opportunity for a shopping trip. Shiloh and I headed out early, crawled through downtown from the Pike Place Market up to Nordstrom's, and ended up with a bag each of clothes, makeup, and jewelry. I love being a girl sometimes.

Grace celebrated her birthday yesterday, and threw herself a stylish faerieland-themed party. Music, conversation, fabulous decorations, and a bar serving cocktails with recipes as unique as their titles set the background; a mob of goths, sf-fans, gamers, and other freaky people conversed in the foreground. I chatted with a polite man named Jordan about his science-fiction society, development, water use, and the Internet; talked to Josh Deinsen for a while about communes, cohousing, and downtown development; and met Adrianna, a lovely student from Bellingham. Meeting new people was a bit tricky given the thickness of the crowd and the scarcity of known common interests, but it was a fun party and worked out well in the end.

Member appreciation night at the Merc was not to be missed. The club was packed, though many of the faces were unfamiliar. I danced like mad, overheated quickly, and spent most of the evening sans shirt - a bit of an odd experience but not entirely unpleasant. Yet another in a lengthening series of recent small-world experiences occured when Adam from Monday night pool walked up and introduced himself. It took a moment to recognize him out of context - I suppose my dark clothes and boots will make a little more sense now that he's seen me in eyeliner and lipstick.

Two nights of clubbing in a row left my hips aching and calves burning; so much for the Vogue tonight.

My jeep is slowly dying: now the brakes are failing. The front left hub emits a growling, grinding noise when I push the brake pedal, and the truck pulls hard to the left as it slows. This is a scary experience. I guess it's time to replace the brake pads, and I hope that's all that needs to happen.

Friday, the 16th of March, 2001

The manic energy which kicked in Sunday evening and sustained me through the rest of the trip persisted until yesterday afternoon, when the go drained out and left me yawning. I disregarded the heap of laundry and the unpaid bills, made a quick dinner of salmon and green peppers, then flopped into bed hours before usual. Today I'm not so exhausted, but there's a little twitch around my eyes that tells me I still have missed sleep to make up. Never mind that, of course - I'm going out tonight!

The increased clarity of sensation, feeling of happiness, and empathy that arrived with a rush on Saturday night have finally dissipated as well. I don't feel bad at all - normal, plus a little glee, a lot of contentment, and good memories. It was a brilliance and a magic I hope to experience again, but it's also nice to touch Earth with my toes again.

I came back to work only to discover that the project I've been working on for the last two and a half months has been shelved. There's been a change of plans, and instead of releasing the nearly-complete upgrade, we're going to rewrite it to use the new company-standard UI toolkit. This would be annoying if it weren't a relief; my part of the project was difficult, ugly, and boring.

As the years accumulate it becomes increasingly difficult to tell them apart. I have to think carefully to determine when a particular event happened and what else I was doing at that time. It would be nice to have a timeline of my life - a long list of everything I want to remember, each entry setting the context for its neighbors. I'd be able to tell at a glance: where was I living when I did that, and how long was it since I'd done the other, and what year was it that I took that job, anyway?

Thursday, the 15th of March, 2001

Another compliment, less ambiguous: apparently I have "a fabulous sense of style." Oooh, my skin tickles. Thank you, and I'm sorry I had nothing witty to say in reply.

Wednesday, the 14th of March, 2001

The trip failed to kill me, though it tried mightily. It will take some time to sort through the events and come up with a picture less drowned in detail than the one I would provide at this moment.

The conference itself turned out to occupy less than the majority of my time and attention.

Friday, the 9th of March, 2001

A few more hours and I'll be off to Texas for South by Southwest. Four days of conferences, networking, parties, and hopefully a lot of fun. I'm anticipating a more artsy, creative attitude among the participants than one experiences at the average trade show. I'm only attending the Interactive Media track, but the event began as a music festival, so I hope the spirit carries through.

I'm curious whether my sense that the web is being rapidly taken over by top-heavy design and corporate control is accurate. Are the things I valued about the web when I first discovered it still driving anyone? Are cool things happening - somewhere, anywhere? Is the revolution over, or are the battles merely being fought outside my ambit?

Friday, the 2nd of March, 2001

I want to keep a daily record of my activities. I think I can't do this in public. This is more because I feel a constant obligation to say something witty and interesting than because I'm hesitant to reveal the details of my existence. Either way, it inhibits my loquacity.

My tentative plan is to write in Martian unless I feel like sharing something with the world.

Older Posts