Mike

Are we driving to Boston then?

With a messenger bag half my size making me lopsided, a paper bag full of newsprint, a camera bag and a plastic tote stuffed with trail mix and dates, I stumble onto the airport shuttle and wedge myself unsteadily between the door and the handrail.

The door closes with a whoosh, whacking me sternly on the backside and shoving me forward in the general direction of an iPoded skateboarder, a guy holding a brownie as if it was the one and only precious thing in the world and a wine-coloured shirt bearing an amused smile.

As the shuttle takes us on an extended scenic tour of the LAX runway, I wobble left and right, trying to readjust my hat and sweating profusely yet discretely, with the goofy smile of someone who knows she looks like a dog's dinner.

I have been on the road for 15 days, in and out of the ER for the last 48 hours and every mile I have travelled is visible on my face.

As I make my way towards seat 29B, I notice that the wine-coloured shirt is seating in 29C. We smile at each other again, sit down and strike up a conversation, comparing the respective emergencies that pulled us out of California at short notice.

We're both freelancers in unpredictable professions, and we share the "in this economy you can't afford to turn any work down" attitude. Oddly enough, we also both sport a bloodshot eye, the left one for him and the right one for me although neither of us mentions it.

Ours is an 'anything goes' kind of conversation, from family values to politics via the general state of the world economy, journalism and airline food, with little breaks devoted to reading – in his case – and trying – and failing – to watch "Midnight in Paris" in mine. I keep falling asleep, head collapsed on my right shoulder which also borders with my neighbor's left.

I wake up with a jolt, apologise, gulp down two cups of coffee and set down to try and write but the ongoing conversation keeps pulling me away from the page and I gladly let it.

The coffee rush is short lived and I slip back into a semi-comatose state, waking up briefly as my head lands on a shoulder that isn't mine and a very distant voice tells me it's OK, sleep, you look exhausted.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I am utterly bewildered by the time we land in Boston and just about manage to wake up enough brain cells to ask my neighbour's name.

He is Mike, a motion pictures cameraman.

We shake hands and part company, only to meet again by the luggage carousel, shake hands and part company again.

"See you around in town", he says.

Much as I'd like to carry on the conversation, Boston is a big place, I won't be there for days and the chances of running into each other again are very remote.

My name is Hannah and I am a peopleholic.

Peter

I met the voice before I met the man.

A routine business call suddenly became laden with promise and anticipation. By the time morning came, I had dug the only pair of earrings I own from the depths of my suitcase, brushed my usually unruly hair and even borrowed a hat.

There were hellos and introductions but I cannot remember them.

The voice was filling all the space. It had a hat on, a green sweater, and a soft grey pashmina around its neck.

As my thoughts faded away and everything became sound, my fingers gently tapped his forearm.

Something I also cannot remember had guided my hand. He turned to me gracefully, eyes shining with curiosity and kindness.

Throughout the morning, glances were stolen from a distance, from behind a tree, a beam or another person. Then we ambled together to a little café with a courtyard.

And sat there for a long time, talking, laughing, sharing our personal earthquakes and little victories while my soul left a few imprints on the memory card of his camera.

Later, as I sat in the car, messenger bag across my body, heavy folder in my hand, I pondered the awkwardness of a hug out loud.

"Save it for next time", he said jokingly.

I gently moved towards him and we embraced in a half hug involving folder, bag and the meeting of two hat brims.

Now I know why it's called the land of enchantment around here.

My name is Hannah and I am a peopleholic.

Fear is my pet hamster

Fear, via Myfanwy's Journal

Sometime on Friday afternoon, Fear whispered in my ear, susurrating sweet nothings in a perfidious tone. 

My self-confidence shook and whimpered a little before setting out to convince me that a job with the many hallmarks of rebranded dullness was so exciting I had to apply for it.

In true 'Hannah 2.0' style, I told the company the way they had turned around a product universally accepted as boring and made it all hip and edgy was what I found attractive. That and their MD's blog post about taking a creative approach to job hunting, which is exactly what I am doing.

This morning, a short, impersonal yet friendly email informed me that the company would not be taking my application any further.

I nodded in a relieved and knowing way, mixed with the slightest hint of ouchiness – because negatives are always a little abrasive – and acknowledged that, when doing an open-minded job search, going for the right role in the wrong place was much worse than going for the wrong role in the right place because:

- I reached out to that company out of fear rather than out of worky love/passion

- I confused innovative branding with creativity although the company's line business is one of the few that cannot ever be remotely creative

- I sold myself short and allowed self-doubt to wiggle its way into my brain

- I cast a wide net and caught a floating plastic bottle rather than a wondrous marine creature I had never heard of, and vice versa from the company's point of view

- an environment that doesn't fit from the start probably never will, whereas a role that doesn't fit in the right environment can easily morph into something more comfortable with time, effort and creativity.

Fear is the pet hamster that lives in my head.

Until Friday afternoon, Fear had been on an extended sabbatical, learning how to knit rainbow socks and fluffy unicorns. Somehow, it briefly bolted out of its rocking chair and into its wheel for a leisurely jog, attracted by something shiny that simply turned out to be a melting ice cube rather than a diamond.

Lesson learnt: I like a knitting hamster best, but in order to do that, it needs colourful yarn, challenging patterns and a pair of specs.

Contains sunshine inside

Sorry, I'm actually happy you know... via jeffhoward

I am not miserable enough.

Because I have decided to laugh in the face of my own misfortunes and wholeheartedly embrace a situation that would be synonymous with 'hell' to most people, I no longer fret, palpitate or pick up large clumps of hair from the plughole.

Almost a week ago, I packed my Islandish life into one suitcase and two bags. Three planes later, I had arrived on Supersize Island and been welcomingly squished into my friend's dollhouse flatshare as I am not only destitute and jobless, but also homeless.

For now.

Trading my Islandish dead end for a new life on Supersize Island was always going to involve a short period of nomadism and uncertainty, but I find it much easier to cope with than mid-Atlantic void.

Here, the air is buzzing with creativity, resourcefulness and unabashed freedom of speech and expression.

There, it was all muffled sounds and high-pitched tales of make believe, closed minds and the paralyzing fear of what people might say if you dared be yourself.

No matter how much empathy, compassion and humour I applied to my fellow mid-Atlantic island dwellers, I always got short-changed after many painful mindset clashes. The fight wore me down, leading me to disengage from Islandish life and shut down.

Or so I thought, because the minute I stepped on the first plane, I started smiling again and regenerating at breakneck speed. By the time I was one flight short of a completed journey, I was beaming, glowing inside and outwards, too.

Reborn, improved and upgraded.

Behold Hannah 2.0, the human disco ball!