Cobb

As time has progressed, and I settled my soul in the measures of the Dalai Lama's recent literary structures, I have exhaled. I had been holding my breath. Somewhere in a fine film, the likes of which I have been denying myself with my appetite for action, it was said that the man who makes best use of the moment is at peace in every moment of the present. Thusly, the future takes care of itself. In the moment, you can make your most important decision within 7 breaths, and it is only for this duration that you must calm yourself and suspend time. The moment is then recaptured. And since then, I have not been held breathless at the prospect of wealth. I have merely stepped forward into my discipline knowing that there is no guarantee either way. Still, I belong.

So I picked up a Linux book, a Perl manual and a spare computer hanging around the office and started back into my old habit of writing, not for people directly as I have been doing on the net since '93, but for the machine itself. I am imagining myself into the satisfying solitude of coding, of architecting a masterwork. And in doing so, I have imagined a world of dedicated mastery, not over minions who would provide legs for my march to wealth, but over myself and that subtle connection which generates trust and loyalty. How can I express it? Being a conduit of principle begins in accepting the principle as the spirit and the self as the vessel. It is only as a conduit/vessel of principle can one...

This is only one abstracted side of the story, one that I suppose could begin and end with my happiness. I am finding ways to become happy and radiate that feeling. If I can become that kind of success, then I only need live long enough and keep my wits, and my new home will present itself. In this way, there is no need for jealousy or envy - which I always considered beneath me anyway.

And so I have stopped being impatient. But then there is this meeting with my boss this afternoon. He wants to hire somebody 'seasoned'.

Just the other day, I met with the Wall Street Analyst at the Trade Show in lieu of my boss who was unavoidably detained. Even as he arrived, he deferred to my descriptions of the business as the three of us sat comfortably in the shadow of our new titanium-tinged Trade Show Structure. The Wall Street Analyst said that I spoke well, and I know he meant it the right way, that I know how to talk to Wall Street Analysts. Inside, Michael X, told me that this honky bastard was searching my teeth for spinach. The boss and I ladled out quips, laughs, facts and nearly insider info as the Wall Street Analyst listened and queried intently. I continued to dominate his time and walk him through an extraordinary demo. I expect his next dispatch to quote me word for word, then well get a nice bump on Wall Street. This is the order of things. Nevertheless, I am an 'articulate black man', an unexpected pleasure.

The New York Times' extraordinarily frank discussion of race has come at an odd moment. In one of its fascinating stories is the tale of the black man who has made his Atlanta millions with a white face man as his CEO. In his next venture, he is failing. People have referred to him as someone who 'helped found' his old company. The details of this story are annoying in a way that I transcend, yet crippling of ambition in a way that I cannot evade. Now this black cat appears from my angle to be of the sort who has a burning and dysfunctional desire to be king of a small hill. A grubber, the singnificance of whom is really only symbolic for people who really cannot see deeper than skin color. This is how I have always viewed feudal millionaires, why I continue to have more respect for career military officers, priests and philosophers. The bounder does what he must to get over, then he starts a foundation for kids. Hmm. Sounds like something I might do.

And so I need to determine whether my peace is sublimation.

The beauty of being Puff Daddy is that your greatest enemy is yourself. So I suppose that the lesson to be learned for the Atlanta Millionaire is that if you use a white man just because he's white, then you are doomed to die by the sword of a game whose rules you don't have the balls to change. Nevertheless, it is a lesson he will have the luxury of learning reading some book as he floats on his mansion's pool.

Still I have yet to determine if my easy breathing is one of denial.

Patricia J. Williams was on the radio yesterday evening. She reminded me of how I used to pull ideas from all over the place and relate them to standing. Somewhere on the web, there is a site with (perhaps) some record of her lecture to Columbia students about how NYC black cops were teaching young black males how to behave around cops: teaching them like they teach women who are raped. This is how you should dress yourself (so as not to draw improper attention). This is how you should walk (so as not to draw improper attention). This is how you should speak (so as not to draw improper attention).

So I have yet to determine if this adjustment to my comportment is proper for me.

I'm all out of paragraphs this Friday evening. It's 9pm and the sun hasn't gone down yet. Seems oddly light. I told Room Service that I spilled my wine by accident and to bring me another glassful. I figured they would see the sop towel and pick up the tab. No such luck. It's my mistake for not paying attention to the basic forces of nature. I should have known better.