2015-03-24

Is This, Home?

Well, generally I don't associate myself with my local geography in an affectionate fashion. But a number of quaint things happened today, and I figured I'd jot down... the moment, as it stands. It is my fifth month, in the current job.

It's 9pm. So there I am in a cafe, where two years ago I'd been every day - back when I was performing groundwork for the setup of another specialty coffeeshop. A big dude walks in with a friend - he points at me, I know him - he's a retired HR executive who now runs a supperclub. I'm sitting in front of my notebook computer. He says, "you're working hard," I say, "I'm talking to girls," he says, "that's the best way to work." We each return to our activities. I'm talking to an amazing person.

A few minutes later, two familiar blokes walk by the cafe, and I point at them, they wave back. The owner of a software development vendor, and a software trainer who works for the government. We chat on Facebook, and later, I join them at a bar down the street. Ownerman asks me, what would make me happy - I say, "if they fired me right now, and I could go on holiday." Trainerdude catches me up on news, he actually exited from a venture a year ago - that's news, so maybe he's been under NDA. We leave. I'm still talking to Amazing - it's been the highlight of my week.

I go home and resume a conversation in a Facebook group about opinions on the Malaysian startup ecosystem. What a g-man phrase. But it shows that the g-men and g-women have been busy. I blame only vested interests. Then my current troll pops up and refers to me in the third-person, so I edit his comment for grammar and post it on my About Me section. I make a new friend or two from the chat - making a point to "show up," in the industry that I work in pays off, sometimes. I have a 10AM weekly management sharing session to attend.

None of this makes me feel old. But it does make me feel very traditional.

Good night.
The flashing lights.
The cop cars.
Your weight.
Your skin, and silhouette.
The smell.
Our cries. Our lives. Our bets.

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