Blood Upon Broadway

If I ever return to these writings for a history of my life, I hope I recognize that the library has been pillaged. Sacked. Pissed upon. And all that's left are the tatters of my very tattered mind.

Sometime on the morning of August 17th, I was assaulted on a major street corner of San Francisco, gushing blood out the back of my head from the fall. Someone helped me, called the ambulance. I woke up the next morning, no idea how it had happened. Certainly I could not face that morning like any other morning. I was ready to take a new path no matter what it might be. For better or worse, that path was responding to a headhunter email. Four days later, still nursing a concussion with bemusing symptoms of amnesia, I gave my two weeks notice.

I'm leaving my steady job. And there's no reason that I have that suits Occam's Razor. The fundamental motivations are deeply obscured. I have an undirected thirst to try some remaining things in this city before I leave. And they were not quenched where I was, even if it was the best job I've ever had. There are certainly logical reasons why it's good to enter consultancy (more contacts, better pay, more visible work) but none of them add up to the whole. A strange weight on it all was the fact that Iceland was only ten days, cut to six because of lost luggage. And I am a slow waker - it takes longer than six days for me to reach that deep focused and peaceful core.

Consultancy then has one more advantage - severing my tie to security. I am now vulnerable, as vulnerable as I am walking the streets at 2am. A company goes under, I lose my work. Then I blink a couple times, and I leave. It's almost a dare. To my friends, to my family, that may not see or hear from me when that bluff is called: I apologize. I hope I've left something with you that persists.