AMERICAN HYBRIDS
A tale of the financial software industry
Excerpt:
The only thing unbearable is the degradation, the prostitution of the living mysteries in us. D.H. Lawrence
The Testosterone Circus
It’s still dark out there, far from dawn. It’s the 21st century, but everything is still pretty much the same. It’s five, early for Manhattan residents, but I grew up in the country and I like my mornings. This one has an icy winter quiet, but still the island resonates with a muted but endless rumbling pedal tone, a thick harmonic of truck engines, heavy machinery, power transformers, tunnel-grumblings, all slowly modulating. It feels like an unending demented Tibetan monk-drone in the sonic middle distance, periodically embellished with shiny sirens, gut-shivering fire-truck klaxons, contrabass diesels, occasional shots, shouts, screams. Late at night it falls away, and in the relative quiet of pre-dawn I can do what I have to do, which is to get organized for the office. Organize my attitude and get into my routine. It’s a daily self-hypnosis project, purpose being to keep me focused on my life in trade, which is the only one currently available. And expunge any temptation to revert to that wild and crazy guy who would do almost anything, and eventually paid for it. This re-invention has to stick because that other guy became unemployable.
Protean . . . . what to do about Protean . . .
Protean Systems is my employer. I’ve never worked extended periods for anyone, and my nearly five years under Bill Petrosky at Protean are a personal best, or worst, depending on how I’m feeling. I need to stay at Protean—no choice about that. In addition to the revenue stream, I need the resume, and Protean has been educational. Lately it’s been a wild ride,
Remind myself again that Protean is Bill and Bill is Protean, and Bill is capable of pretty much anything he deems necessary, like firing employees who want some respect for making him rich.
Get to my feet and walk naked and barefoot across the cold board floor of my loft as two wide-awake fun-loving cats press me. Food now! The plan is, water into kettle, then feed cats, but they often prevail. I think of Buck and Coco as my cats, they think of me as bread and circuses. They got their names from a woman named Daphne, who was the biggest event of my adult life. Buck is self explanatory and Coco means co-equal. She’s more than equal—long-haired purebred, willful and exotic. Each morning these two enjoy breakfast while I sit in a heavy robe and drink large mugs of very strong tea while reading a few pages of something from a better world. Beckett maybe, Machado De Assis, Miller’s tailor-shop passages from Black Spring. Sipping and reading, reading and sipping. Reestablishing that this is my own life, very own life, lived at my own tempo for my own purposes.
Why exactly must I have this private personal “life”? Why do I so presume? I need the personal life for business reasons. This is not a joke. When I write about Protean’s software or am interviewed about it, or discuss it on the phone with prospective clients, it’s helpful to convey something other than the disingenuous cornered-rat desperation of a small software company. An unfettered private sense of self allows me to do this, conferring the gift of plausible fantasy.
And yes, like most New Yorkers, I think about myself a lot. Not very attractive, but would one dare enter the 21st century without a heavy shot of narcissism? Very un-American, put you completely out of step.
A tale of the financial software industry
Excerpt:
The only thing unbearable is the degradation, the prostitution of the living mysteries in us. D.H. Lawrence
The Testosterone Circus
It’s still dark out there, far from dawn. It’s the 21st century, but everything is still pretty much the same. It’s five, early for Manhattan residents, but I grew up in the country and I like my mornings. This one has an icy winter quiet, but still the island resonates with a muted but endless rumbling pedal tone, a thick harmonic of truck engines, heavy machinery, power transformers, tunnel-grumblings, all slowly modulating. It feels like an unending demented Tibetan monk-drone in the sonic middle distance, periodically embellished with shiny sirens, gut-shivering fire-truck klaxons, contrabass diesels, occasional shots, shouts, screams. Late at night it falls away, and in the relative quiet of pre-dawn I can do what I have to do, which is to get organized for the office. Organize my attitude and get into my routine. It’s a daily self-hypnosis project, purpose being to keep me focused on my life in trade, which is the only one currently available. And expunge any temptation to revert to that wild and crazy guy who would do almost anything, and eventually paid for it. This re-invention has to stick because that other guy became unemployable.
Protean . . . . what to do about Protean . . .
Protean Systems is my employer. I’ve never worked extended periods for anyone, and my nearly five years under Bill Petrosky at Protean are a personal best, or worst, depending on how I’m feeling. I need to stay at Protean—no choice about that. In addition to the revenue stream, I need the resume, and Protean has been educational. Lately it’s been a wild ride,
Remind myself again that Protean is Bill and Bill is Protean, and Bill is capable of pretty much anything he deems necessary, like firing employees who want some respect for making him rich.
Get to my feet and walk naked and barefoot across the cold board floor of my loft as two wide-awake fun-loving cats press me. Food now! The plan is, water into kettle, then feed cats, but they often prevail. I think of Buck and Coco as my cats, they think of me as bread and circuses. They got their names from a woman named Daphne, who was the biggest event of my adult life. Buck is self explanatory and Coco means co-equal. She’s more than equal—long-haired purebred, willful and exotic. Each morning these two enjoy breakfast while I sit in a heavy robe and drink large mugs of very strong tea while reading a few pages of something from a better world. Beckett maybe, Machado De Assis, Miller’s tailor-shop passages from Black Spring. Sipping and reading, reading and sipping. Reestablishing that this is my own life, very own life, lived at my own tempo for my own purposes.
Why exactly must I have this private personal “life”? Why do I so presume? I need the personal life for business reasons. This is not a joke. When I write about Protean’s software or am interviewed about it, or discuss it on the phone with prospective clients, it’s helpful to convey something other than the disingenuous cornered-rat desperation of a small software company. An unfettered private sense of self allows me to do this, conferring the gift of plausible fantasy.
And yes, like most New Yorkers, I think about myself a lot. Not very attractive, but would one dare enter the 21st century without a heavy shot of narcissism? Very un-American, put you completely out of step.
