I am now ten days into a new job; which is interesting because already my mind has become accustomed to the fact that the world looks different. Just like my previous workplace, where although the world that waits outside exists, because I mainly look at a wall and screen, the only indication that I have of time actually passing is the occasional glance at the bottom right hand corner of the screen and noticing that the numbers have changed.
I have the immediate job of transferring information from one accounting system to another and for the most part, this first task is either a series of cut and paste jobs, or trawling through 30 years' of documental detritus to find someone's email address, or phone number, or company number, et cetera et cetera cetera. Already I am the "calm" one of the office. As I am used to having to fend for myself for most jobs, then if something doesn't make sense, or doesn't fit, or can not be explained, then I just see that as a mere puzzle piece that has to be found. Quite literally, nobody else can help me in this case because they do not understand the systems which I previously used; nor will they be ever asked to do so.
The weirdest thing though is how my perception of time has changed. Time used to be a thing which swung one way and then then other. What is really curious about time now, is just how much it drags while I am aware of it, and how much it just doesn't exist when am not. To go from 0830 to 1230 is like every minute is extracting teeth; then 1230-1330 passes in an instant, and then 1330 to 1645 is equally infuriating; before in an instant the clock jumps from 1646 to 1707.
Some of this is likely due to the threshold effect, where having entered a new environment, one's brain does an immediate info dump of what went before and tries frantically to absorb everything which is new. Except in this case, I not only need to retain the information which I previously held, but as I am now responsible for holding and transferring information which I previously did not need to know, I guess that my brain is trying to accommodate all of the change in circumstances through some kind of mental time dilation.
I imagine that this kind of thing is what Formula One drivers report when they say that they can slow down time while in the motor car. With so much information screaming at you constantly and the pressure to deliver, my guess is that this is what is happening in their mind. It is actually probably easier to be a Formula One driver, if you consider the fact that they generally are paid many millions of dollarpounds to do what they love, whereas in comparison each of my seconds are remunerated by less than a pennycent. The other major difference is that a Formula One driver otherwise lives quite a comfortable existence when they are not at work, whereas I like the great grey glob of people who have to do work to keep the rent collectors away, am decided not.
I am also not quite at the stage where my lunch hour is sensible. Notwithstanding the fact that I have the CBD of Chatswood which is perpetual funland of a thousand businesses all wanting to sell me something, which I can not afford to buy; and which tries desperately to vomit a thousand colours into every single possible space. This for me is not a sensory overload problem but rather palace after palace of pure irrelevance. I have found a bookstore, a post office, a park, and the rest of it need not bother to exist. I am not prepared to spend as much money for lunch, as the myriad of places want me to spend.
What has made this all the more irritating is that on top of having a body which constantly screams out in pain (which likely isn't even real) because of an accident from three years ago; my guts have decided all on their own, to rebel and hold some kind of mutiny. Anyone who has worked on a motor car knows that when you see the forbidden chocolate milk coming out of the tail pipes, then something has gone wrong. In my case, when forbidden chocolate milk is coming out of the tail pipe, then something has also gone wrong.
Once again I am confronted with the fact that in many respects, I am a consciousness enclosed inside meat, with a mind/body/soul/spirit set of operating systems, which I do not understand and which I am mostly not conscious of. It is also weird that a great deal of the biome which also lives within the bag of meat, shares no DNA with me whatsoever. This is the kind of thing which aught to drive essayists and novelists who deal with the metaphysical insane, but it does not. I find it frustrating that there is precious little literature which is able to even deal with what it is like to feel pain, in any meaningful way at all. In fact, the only major work that I have ever read on anything like this is by Virginia Woolf:
“Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to view, what precipices and lawns sprinkled with bright flowers a little rise of temperature reveals, what ancient and obdurate oaks are uprooted in us by the act of sickness…it is strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature.”
- Virginia Woolf, "On Being Ill" (1925)
Perhaps the weirdest thing of all about this current bout of unpleasantness is that I now have a mental map of where all the toilets at at home, a Blacktown, Parramatta, Strathfield, Central, and Chatswood Railway Stations, where they are in the new building where I work, and in the juggling game of time, where I need to be in order to make best use of any of them. Both time and my guts are currently broken... which indicates that something has gone wrong in operating systems which I do not understand.
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