Patron saint of Sailors, I believe. And the source of the Marfa Lights, if you ask me. But no one did.
Hooked up with a guitar player who could stick the cat, then ambled down home and up to meet with an informal group of local writers.
From the edge of the river, where Shady Acres is located, it’s all uphill, every direction. Unless, of course, you’re going downstream, but never mind that direction. So it was uphill all the way over to Curra’s, and from there, with less than 20 minutes elapsed time, it was all mostly downhill. In a fun way, of course. I would point out that we certainly cleared our section of the patio. Conversation turned nice and raunchy in no time flat. A good time was had by all.
And then, and then I heard that plaintive wail. It’s one I’m real familiar with, a tune I don’t like, but I’ve sung it many times. It’s a sad song, about doing something for love, and then, ungrateful cretins, get all up in your face because you have the temerity to attempt to charge a nominal sum for what you do.
See, what that Libra was describing, how she felt about one of her e-mails, those notes had similar effect on me. Pain, anguish, and ultimately, frustration. Spend a lot of hours coding, tweaking a server, painstakingly working on editing, writing, proofreading, the number of hours are enormous. Then there’s the fiscal aspect. Last fall, this last winter, a good portion of the spring, I worked a second job to help pay for all of this.
And just once, I enjoyed a brilliant epiphany, as that Libra was talking through her frustration. Oh yes, I’ve been there. Some person drops a quick email, complaining about complaining.
I think my personal fave was self-absorbed.
Although, for sheer audacity, there were some others, as well as personal slam.
Jette, her sweet Scorpio self, leaned over to me, and mumbled something about, “like folks writing and complaining about free horoscopes?”
Exactly.
From the restaurant, a splinter group adjourned to Amy’s. I was ecstatic because I’d just heard someone with the very same sense, the identical lament, the same pain and anguish, the angst, I’ve suffered with for lo, these many months.
Then there’s the way I now deal with such “inbox” material; it’s a two-fold process:
1) Consider that the person writing in has a small mind. Maybe the person doesn’t understand the intricacies of finance. Maybe, they’re just a dumb as a stump. Inconsiderate, too.
2) The delete key. Works really well and is remarkably freeing. I highly recommend it.
Which doesn’t have anything to do with what the outcome of the situation was, just that I felt a sudden kinship because I was no longer alone in dealing with web trolls.
St. Elmo’s Fire is static electricity that builds up, especially during storms, originally on the rigging of sailing ships. It arcs and sparks, releasing a fiery light show.
In some cases, it occurs at ground level, hence the allusion to the Marfa Lights. Actually hearing someone else, in the same line of work, bitching about the same people, or the same type of people, just made me feel better. I’m not alone.
It was one of those rare occasions when I said, “I feel your pain,” and yes, I really do. Do I ever.
It’s that little spark, running up and down the spine – like a personal version of St. Elmo’s.
