Making order out of chaos

There is a heat wave in Vancouver right now – 30 degrees Celsius with a humidex in the mid-30s.

Normally I’d be typing this at home in mine and Joe’s apartment – which is a lot like a meat-locker with comfortable furniture – but, even our basement apartment is not cool enough to work in right now.

So, I got myself organized and came to the library for 9:45 a.m. figuring it probably didn’t open until 10 a.m. When I arrived, already hot and a little uncomfortable in the early morning heat, I saw a huge crowd of people standing before the glass doors looking anxious.

My first impression was that I was in a George Romero film, but this time looking at things from the zombie’s point of view.

A bunch of slightly sun-sticky shamblers, hands clutching plastic protected books with bar codes on the front chanting “Books….air conditioning…”

I was surprised at the assortment of people desperate to get into the library so early. A strange looking man with a little suitcase on wheels, a young man who looked like a smaller version of David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust days, and any number of students with heavy looking backpacks.

The glass doors slid open and we all went inside, some people rushing to favoured reading tables and others directly to the toilets.

I hunted around for a table where I could plug my laptop in and do some work, and found a great table on the first floor. Window view, shaded by the overhang on the building and wonderfully quiet. Then I discovered a huge mess of what looked like rebar with a plug at the end that lead directly to some dead outlets.

Damn. Bye bye window seat.

I headed to the information desk and after waiting for the woman there to stop her personal conversation with a fellow employee she looked at me. I asked her where I could find working outlets in the library and her helpful answer was:

“There are seven floors in this building, one of them is bound to have something.”

The look on her face clearly said, “What do I look like – an information desk?”

I took the escalator to the next floor and asked a woman at the desk there – she was much, much nicer and pointed me to the desk I’m using now. The only bad part is that it is directly over the kid section and there are no less than three crying children making their displeasure known.

So, I have some pretty serious doubts about getting any work done, but the people watching is nearly as interesting.

Two desks behind me is an older gentleman reading a newspaper, the desk to my left (across a small opening surrounded by glass and metal railings) is a rather serious looking young man staring intently at his laptop. I wonder if he is writing a similar blog post about the “weird red-head who keeps looking at me.”

I kind of hope so actually.

To my right are tall metal shelving units filled with books about writers. From here I can read the spines of a few: A Writer’s Ireland, The Idiot’s Guide to English Literature, Eliot, Joyce & Company.

And, to make things even more interesting there is a man setting up across from me with his HUGE Mac notebook. I mean, the screen must be 19 inches at least. He also just taken off his shoes – bare feet on the public library carpet. Ew.

Oh well, there is some comfort in knowing that I could get a medical book and look up the symptoms for athletes foot without too much effort.

Last night I had my first ever dream featuring a celebrity. The only other time I’ve dreamt of anything celebrity-related was the time I woke Joe up because I was shrieking in my sleep (I was riding around on Angelina Jolie’s speedboat in the dream – I never actually saw her, but I knew it was her boat and I was having the time of my life.)

Anyway, here is the dream:

I am on a small passenger plane headed for Vancouver. There are about 25 passengers and all of the female passengers are clustered around a seat at the back of the plane. When the crowd of giggling and preening women part, I see a supremely annoyed looking Robert Pattinson sitting in the seat. It’s clear to me he’s trying not to lose his temper, or give into to the temptation of tossing the lot of them out the door at 25,000 feet. The girls are all making a huge fuss of him, trying to get his attention, trying to find some excuse, any excuse, to touch him.

He sees me looking at him, his mouth is set in a grim line, his teeth clenched. I give him a little half-wave and turn away.

We begin our descent into Vancouver and the girls all reluctantly return to their seats. I stare out the window as we fly lower and notice that a large tank is rumbling it’s way down a set of unused train tracks as we fly over Kerrisdale. The pilot begins to speak over the PA system as I lose sight of the tank:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid we must divert our Vancouver flight to another nearby facility. Please remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened and your seat backs and tray tables in the upright and locked position.”

I’m feeling a little anxious and more than a little annoyed. All I want is to get home and get off this stupidly tiny plane with it’s cramped seating and silly women behind me. Some of the ladies have chosen to become hysterical at the pilot’s announcement and have launched themselves in a flurry of fake tears into Robert Pattinson’s lap. I don’t need to look this time to know that he is not impressed. I can hear him and the flight attendant urging these idiots back to their seats.

The plane finally lands and we are shown into a small, cramped air hangar and told to wait for the arrival of our luggage.

While most of the passengers cluster around Rob, I head over to a counter and ask why the flight’s been diverted. One of the employees, her attention largely focused on the large group around Rob, tells me that the pilot saw a tank in Kerrisdale and was unsure it was safe to land. Cars were being brought in to pick us all up and get us either home or to a hotel.

I walk towards the group which has dispersed somewhat and get Rob’s attention.

“What?” he’s practically snarling with frustration.

“The pilot diverted the flight because he thought there was a threat to our safety. Cars are being sent to pick us all up and take us where we need to go. I thought you might like to know.”

Rob looks surprised, then colours a little for biting my head off. “Thanks.”

I nod at him and walk over to where our luggage is being unloaded. I take my bags down a small hallway near a door over-looking the tarmac. A few moments later I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and it’s Rob.

“Hey,” he says. “Want to grab a cigarette with me?”

I don’t smoke, but what the hell, I agree and we walk out. Rob lights up and we start walking across the tarmac. Suddenly, from behind, there is a cacophony of voices. “Rob! Rob, is this your new girlfriend?”, “How does Kristen feel about this?”, “How did you two meet?” and other questions lost in the babble of voices and sound of camera flashes and hurried footsteps.

Rob grabs my hand and looks at me quickly and then down again. The message is clear: “Don’t look. Say nothing. Keep moving.” We hurry further on and I feel grateful that he didn’t simply bolt and leave me to fend for myself. There is a large white car across the way and we move towards it. As I am looking down and hurrying, I see a small pixie dressed in a deep pink dress at my feet. I bend and scoop her up in my hand as we rush forwards.

The pixie is completely unimpressed with this and bites me.

I frown at her. “I thought maybe you’d prefer to not be trampled by those idiots.”

“Oh.” she says in a tiny bell-like voice. “Then I apologize for biting you.”

The reporters and photographers are now gone and we reach the car. The pixie leaps from my hand into the open driver-side window. The dome light goes on illuminating the amber tinted windows and the driver-side door opens. Inside, the car is upholstered all in white leather. As my eyes adjust to the slightly darker interior, I see that the seats are covered in strings of raw meat, watery blood and the small holder between the two front seats is full of what looks like a blood and milk mixture.

I look back at Rob and he grins, “Well, we have to have somewhere to eat, drink and whore.”

At this point I got woken up by a garbage truck in the alley behind the house – and maybe that’s for the best.

One of the tasks I set for myself at the most recent Emotus Operandi meeting was to visualize and write about my ideal office/work space.

So I sat down this morning and started looking at pictures from the online Restoration Hardware catalogue. I had some lovely fantasies of me sitting down in my Madeleine Side Chair to work at my beautiful Portuguese Desk, a cozy Scrollwork Tibetan Rug beneath my feet and a cup of fragrant green tea within easy reach. Once in awhile, as I was immersed in the creation of my incredibly brilliant first novel, I would look out the generously sized windows towards the sea and maybe get up to throw another log on the fire – after stepping over my irish wolfhound dogs, Heathcliff and Boris.

How’s that for ideal?

Then I realized the chances of me ever having such an office were pretty slim and I’d never get any work done in there anyway. I’d be too distracted by all the first edition books in my Grand French Casement Oak Cabinets and probably fritter the day away playing with my dogs on the seashore.

I took a good look at the work space I have at home and realized that aside from the fact that it’s pretty much in my living room, it’s actually not a bad space for a home office. The less than ideal aspects about my current space were all the office supplies cluttering up the lovely 1930′s dining table I use as my desk.

I figured if I couldn’t have my office by the sea, I could have a good work space here at home. So I cleaned the table off – and ruthlessly threw everything that was superfluous onto a huge pile that I will donate to a school-supplies drive come September.

So, now I’m sitting at my newly cleaned up desk and having another realization: I still haven’t fulfilled the object of the exercise. I’ve made my home office more or less ideal – but I’ve done nothing to envision what my office/work life might be like if I were get a more regular job outside of my home office.

If I’m being honest, I suppose I don’t care so much about the office space as I do about the work I’m doing and the people I’m doing it with, but I’ll give it a shot anyway:

The work should be interesting and meaningful.

Ideally, I want to work on something that means something to me personally – something I’d use, buy or want for myself. I’ve worked on projects and at places that were never more than a means to a paycheque. Lots of people do this and it’s considered normal. I don’t want that kind of normal. I want to want more than just the paycheque.

I would also prefer work that doesn’t cause me to go home feeling stressed out and annoyed with the universe – I don’t want to become my work, I want my work to simply be a natural extension of something I like anyway (and then I want to be paid a reasonable salary for doing it).

My work environment should be reasonably pleasant.

When I say “work environment” I mean the people in the work place. Ideally, I would work at a smallish company with (or for) like-minded people and we will create a work environment that is nice to be in. When I’m at work, I want to actually do work. I want to create and produce things. I want to know that my colleagues and I are working together toward a common goal, but I also want a relaxed atmosphere that is friendly. My dream job has an ROWE policy anyway, so the rest should follow. I also want the people I work for to be available and have an open door policy.

I’ve had many managers, and they were nearly always busy with paperwork or in meetings so it was rare that I could use them as a resource for the work I was doing. Of course, they always made time (eventually) for performance reviews and when they discovered I’d been struggling along and improvising a little they’d inevitably ask, “Why didn’t you come to me about this? That’s what I get paid for.”

The work space should be set up for the results I’m supposed to produce.

Most places don’t give their employees a say in how their work space is set up. I suppose all I would ask is that I have some measure of privacy, one of those metal locker things for my coat and personal belongings, and equipment that works, with the software I need set up and ready to go.

I can’t count how many times I’ve started at an office with an empty desk, or a PC that doesn’t work, a broken chair and two cheap pens that leak in a dusty holder. Please, if you want good things from me, treat me like I matter. Have this stuff set up and tested, don’t give me the chair no one else will sit in, and clean the desk.

If there could also be some sort of cleaning schedule in place for the kitchen – that would be awesome. Communal fridges/microwaves/sinks are generally disgusting and I hate having to clean random goo off the counter before I can use it.

Looking over what I’ve just written here, I don’t think my ideals are very demanding or unrealistic. Ultimately, I want to be happy in my work. I want to know that I am doing something useful with and for people with whom I have a good and honest working relationship. I will give a lot to the place that can provide these things.

Now that I have a picture in my head of my ideal office, I just need to start looking for a place that fits these criteria!