Gunn to My Head (5/12/09 Tuesday)

Neil Gunn suggested, in The Atom of Delight, that a by-product of analysis is the object's destruction, but I would offer up this journal as evidence to the contrary. My depression, neurosis, and self-loathing have all been impervious to my intellectual firepower. Perhaps it's a deficiency of my armory and/ordinance. Regardless, I'm inclined to believe Neil Gunn when I have an out-of-character experience, though my reason for doing so is predicated more on superstition than empirical reality; that is, I don't want to jinx it: It came out of nowhere, as for as I know, and it might as soon go back there if I don't let it be and settle in.

Monday morning I overslept the alarm by an hour. Not a big deal--I just opted out of packing lunch and making coffee. I could get a sandwich at the cafe, and I had a stash of mate in my desk at work. I settled all that within ten seconds of cussing at the clock.

At work I had back-to-back mugs of mate, but I was still grumpy, though it wasn't entirely because of by the lack of sleep--at least not directly. I was feeling bitter still from Sunday night's ruminations. My pride was taking a beating from the upper hand I had projected into Julie's possession.

Julie was backup the hour I was processing holds. I needed to cut some paper to wrap them with. The cutter is on the counter behind the discharge station, where Julie sat. I was especially forceful in bringing down the blade, though I only cut a few sheets at a time in order to prolong the activity and raise the annoyance factor. The sound of the blade slicing through the paper then banging to a stop is nearly as violent as the action itself, amplified as it is by the elevated soundboard of the hollow underbelly of the cutting surface. I knew I'd get a remark.

"Are you making sure the paper's cut?" said Julie.

"I'm pretending my neck is under there," I said.

There was no reply.

Finished, I sat down to the holds, at Angie's desk, in front of Julie's. Julie came back for a sip of her Earl Grey. On her return trip she asked, smiling, "Did you get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"I did that all weekend."

Again, no reply.

"And most of last week," I wanted to add, but that would have been a bit thick.

At lunch I twice attempted conversation with Julie and was each time met with little more than a grunt of discomfiture. That I did not feel rebuffed or embarrassed was an oddity that I did not till this very moment consider as such. It hadn't quite rolled off my back then, but little did I take it personally, either.

For trhe rest of the day I was civil and human as I may ever have been at work, especially in the past year. I offered conversation unbidden, quipped eloquently, and was even nice to Mary Lou, the co-worker with whom I have always had the least tolerance. And I gave it little to no thought.

Today was little different, maybe, even, more of the same. My only contact with Julie was when she entered the break room upon her arrival to put her lunch in the fridge. I said, "Hi, Julie." I didn't try to smile--or not to--so I probably didn't. She muttered, "Hey," with a vaguely questioning look, as if seeking motive. An hour in the workroom together barely raised my temperature, and though I had to apply conscious effort not to look at her at every chance, the effort was all but off-handed.

With as little effort, but unconsciously, I nearly came upon the reason for this recent change in behavior, but as I saw it rising to consciousness I popped it like a bubble. If the analysis is destructive I will destroy first the analysis. I'm not knocking on wood or throwing spilled salt over my shoulder. I'm leaving well enough alone.