Is it a line from a movie? A lyric? It feels more like a lyric. A memorable lyric from an unforgettable song that I have forgotten.
“Lost yet not found.” That is a tautology. It cannot be right.
There is the lyric from inchkii‘s Pictures & sounds: “Never been so lost now that I am found.” It is a great line but not the one circling the inside of my brain.
I search, I look for variations. It is a common combination of words. The song must be an album track or an obscure single. I’m stuck.
Tip-of-the-tongue or is it a Zeigarnik effect.
I can remember the name of an effect for an unfinished task staying in memory but I cannot remember that song.
“Lost and not yet found.” I still cannot find it. I need to let it go.
Letting go, getting over it. I am always hanging on to shit. Like the time a boss tried to screw me over.
I could smell the setup. Ambiguous objectives, unrealistic requests, orders to cancel travel requests. I was not going to take it lying down.
I send a note to my human resources representative. “I cannot sign this document. The objectives are neither specific not measurable.”
Polite emails with a hint of self-deprecation:
I think I have misunderstood your request.
Are you asking for the number active users, new users and terminated users? For tomorrow morning’s meeting?
This requires the system administrator and the department director’s approval. Unfortunately, neither are available, except for emergencies, on a Sunday.
I also had to be inventive when explaining to my business partners why I could not attend meetings in person.
As expected, my annual review said I had not my objectives, did not deliver on time and shared confidential department information.
I produced my documentation and was called a liar.
I was still arguing my case, recounting every abuse for months after he was fired.
And I guess I am still not over it. Look at the number of paragraphs of indignation hiding behind corporate speak.
“Get over it!” It is easier to know what to do than to do it. “Do as I say, not as I do” is ironic when you’re talking to yourself.
I head to the gym. Exercise as a cure for restlessness.
I skip the first open parking spot. A tight fit. I am not in the mood to spend five minutes maneuvering.
A car jumps out of a spot. “Fuckin’ hell!” Breathe.
It is a good spot. I turn on my blinker. The car behind me honks. “Aw come on!” Breathe.
I change into my gym clothes, drape my towel around my neck and look for my bottle of water. “Fuck, it’s in the car!” Breathe.
I head for the weights. Stop. I haven’t warmed up. I turn around and go to the cardio. Twenty minutes later my t-shirt is soaked and I am no longer thinking. Bench press day.
Stepping out, I notice the weather. A hamburger-on-the-patio day. A slow stroll day. A walk-on-the-sunny-side day.
“Oh My God! Did you hear about the music producer?” It’s Lucy. She likes talking about literature. Her school teacher past. A pleasant companion for lunch. Sartre?
She’s alternating between famous singers and outrageous acts. It might take a lot to change the subject. She is deep into her conversation. I could step in front of her. Warn her that she might step into a pole if she continues phoning and walking.
Not today. I don’t have the patience.