"I make love to pressure"

Time has come to a halt. The swank, cherry wood clock that magically sets itself, which I bought for the Red House shortly after we moved in, went comatose at exactly 8:50:47.5 either a.m. or p.m. I think the battery must be very nearly dead: the second hand twitches back and forth between 47 and 48, like beeps from a bedside heart rate monitor.

Still no plan on what comes next for me. I'm working on all those journalism applications. As I'm sure all of you know, time flies impossibly fast when you're putting off sleep to put together requests for rejection letters.

Things may be looking up, though. I finally saw City of God, thanks to Danny's frequent trips to I Luv Video, and it did indeed beat ass*. Having thus completed the final ordinance of the Spider House sacrament of pretension, I no longer have any unfulfilled obligations here in Austin and am free to leave.

That said, I have nowhere to go. The idea of leaving excites me, but like all change it doesn't sit well. On top of all this, my lease is up in two weeks, and I wanted to avoid moving back to S.A. at all costs, for fear of stagnation. I can't leave Austin until I've found an actual job in another town, so next week it will be time to search for six-month leases and wage work, just in case.

I waiver by the hour on what to do, which is probably to be expected, but this uncertain anticipation is as disconcerting as waiting for an exam to start. I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

While worrying about all this, I did come across one heartening anecdote: the plight of former Spur Stephen Jackson.

Both Jackson and his agent, Dan Fegan, were ridiculed far and wide for passing on a chance to continue playing with Tim Duncan and having to scrounge for a deal from the Hawks. ... [But this offseason, n]ot only did [his agent] get him a deal that makes the Spurs' offer look paltry (six years, $44 million), but he reunited him with former San Antonio assistant coach Mike Brown, who played a prominent role in Jackson's emergence with the Spurs. He also goes from one of the league's most miserable teams to one of its mightiest, and one that desperately needs his clutch 3-point stroke.

In short, the decision that drew Fegan the most criticism a year ago actually may turn out to be one of his best.

So maybe if I bide my time just a little longer that I originally wanted, I too will find my own $3,500/hr writing job. And then, as Jackson points out, I will receive a warm, pleasing sensation whenever I think of all those suckers who failed to revel in my painfully fecund abilities.

[Jackson] watched the Spurs fall to the Lakers in this year's playoffs -- primarily because they had no one who could hit an open 3 down the stretch -- with a certain satisfaction.

"I got so many phone calls from friends while I sat there and watched that," he said. "That's what I live for. I make love to pressure."

Yes, yes, it's all so clear to me. I need not fear if today's jobs fail to come through, for I have the faith in my abilities to patiently await another greater opportunity.

And I get drunk and make out with opportunity.


*Danny asked earlier if it was a good thing to “beat ass.” If to kick ass is good, then to beat it is even better.