A quiet weekend. Most of my thinking, as throughout the previous week, was dedicated to a piece of work I have been trying to get done since last July. I believe that I at last essentially finished with it tonight, with some presentation matters only left to take care of now. Which is good, because the backlog is sizeable.
(Hooray for Huygens, a glimpse of human achievement in the midst of the usual ‘fare’.)
On Friday I saw my friend X for coffee (the new local Starbucks is dearly treasured, here you can see why). X recently successfully entered the Principality’s Diplomatic Service — that’s why no hint through a nickname, not even X’s sex can be revealed: the Outpost is tiny. Understandably, X was, as ever, very upset, but quietly so, with local politics. I tried to explain to him / her not to worry too much: everyone is happy, the system works (for the time being), the privileged are happy and the oppressed sedated. Only a handful of intellectual troublemakers have a problem. Telling X such things, I had in mind that some time this week is my 3rd anniversary in the Outpost: lately I have been trying to forget about what there is around me and embed myself within work, domestic happiness, travelling and imported friends.
My argumentation was squarely refuted the following evening. By Jod, as ever, who used the two c-words and a third one: compromise, conformism and appeasement. Following this and after a vodka-tonic and a dubiously mixed Black Russian, I promptly had a vision about how we are going to be leaving the Outpost… It involved two options (yes, even the visions revealed to me come with binary options): either there emerges a better job somewhere else and we leave here, or we become completely fed up and just leave here.
While you are here, look at this. I will tell you about Outpost cabarets some other time…