"All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why."
-James Thurber

Word of the day: "dithyramb"

It was 11:44pm, SST.

I sat in the lambent glare of my twin monitors; the lights in adjacent cubicles having being turned off to reduce costs and hence increase shareholder value. My sleeves, long since rolled up (at 4:30pm, to facilitate wolfing a hasty snack of potato salad) , rasped irritatingly against the chair as I leaned back as far I could, pushing its torsial tolerances to the limit.

On the screen, I could see numbers exploding before me, a cascade of values and candlecharts and trendlines whirling at the click of a macro, exploding into a series of notional values that writhed their way across columns and cells, living their brief, spasmatic lives of information, until a new flood of data washed in, coerced into channels by VB code as compelling as scripture, watching as a notional fortune beyond the dreams of avarice was born, and lived, and died.

I was wearing a headset, one of those with a thin fiber optic mike, the sort you see harrassed yet fixatedly-smiling travel agents wear while they spend interminable minutes keying in an elaborate itinerary of the worst possible hotels and crappiest sights you can spend your money on. Clicking blindly on buttons, control panels, occasionally keying in a correction; or alt-Breaking to modify a line of code; I occasionally feel, at my work, that I am not driving the data; that the data is driving me; I watch its ebbs and flurries like a Genoan rabbi mouthing the words of the Torah - only for me it is like a prayer wheel; a phsyical manifestation in phosphor dots and figured text and stratified lines serving as a paltry physical representation; sad metaphor of an impossibly telluric current - an endlessly profane temurah of, not something so crude as mere money, but of finance, of vol skews and dispersion trades; spread calls and podiums, delta and gamma, sensitivity and duration, ad majoram Dei gloriam.

In my ear, like the antithesis of a guardian angel, I heard the cultured, faintly sardonic voice of the Black. The Black, it is whispered in our corridors and amidst fearful huddles around the pantry cofee machine, earns more gelt in a year than some small South Pacific nations' GDP, of which a small portion is spent financing a massive yearly Bacchanal in a Cornish castle where he watches exquisite 15-year old Shan prostitutes who have been kidnapped and trained in all the arts of profane pleasure since infancy by the descendants of the keepers of the Abbasid caliphs' seraglios. He is said to sit on a throne carved exclusively from the left tibias of analysts who have displeased him (even the most fervid and vaporously perverse disposition shies from imagining to what uses the other 205 bones of an analyst can be put to use); and he drinks deep from a golden chalice rumoured to have been part of the Last Supper's dinner service filled with a mead brewed from the fermented blood of terminated contractors.

As I carried out the instructions of that dispassionate voice, blending a tapestry of figures and values and risk and return and profit and loss; I was no better than a Mammonite golem, responding only to shibboleth jargon, an extension of will carried across telephony and finding execution in my volitionless form. Occasionally, in a dead voice, I would rasp back a number, a figure, and once in a while, when my synapses could manage it, an entire sentence of near-objection or suggestion.

And yet, despite the brilliance of the Black and my own feeble attempts to condense his nuances into a meaningful set of numbers, we soon came to an impasse. Disaster. Nearing midnight, Singapore time; nearing 4:00pm, London. Trading hours would close soon; and the Elect of Hiddukel, those modern-day alchemists who have mastered the aescultation of Value from Nothing (ah, the wonders of leverage and off-balance sheet instruments!); they awaited word from the Black to complete the Great Work of the Day (and it is, as always, a daily miracle made casual, the endless cycle of creation from chaos; and an irony that it is the vicissistudes of chaos - or, in the word of the truly initiated, Volatility, that makes such measuredly inspired creation possible) . And the Black awaited the result I had rashly promised him earlier; with only dire consequence to follow in the wake of failure.

I was faced with numbers that I , barely an adept, a journeyman in the dark arts, could scarce comprehend; a conundum as beyond my grasp as literacy is to today's youth. Hoarsely, desperately, I whispered, "I can't do this. It doesn't make sense."

Cold tones: "Double the vol; use the old reference time-series."

I did as instructed. "I still can't get a figure. It's hashing out. Maybe we should call - "

"No time. I need to get this mail out to the Butcher. His minions (yes, he used the word "minions") need to know how much they can put on without busting - "

Attempted voice of reason. A half-remembered lesson from one of the online courses we are required to take, as part of the Bank's policy of self-improvement. "Handling Difficult Interactions."

"Maybe if you told me how you calc- can I get the spread off Bloomberg? Or Reuters? I tried the OAS but I couldn't get a quote -"

Harsh snarl cut me off. "And I know you couldn't find anything. There's nothing there. Not for these guys. You're not going to find shit there. Fuck. Christ. What a fucking palaver. (The first time in my life I have heard the word "palaver" in speech. One of the most aesthetically satisfying wonders of what I do is that I am surrounded by people who use words and figures of speech I have only read in books, like the Irish "begorrah" and, in Scottish brogue, "his days are noom-bered.") Alright. What do you think it should be?"

"Erm. Aren't you supposed to tell me that so I can pump it into KOBOLD and get the var? (codename for one of the myriad many systems we have. All of which are have outlandish names that reveal nothing their function, like ODE, ETRUSCAN, PULSAR, VERITY, FRAMELIGHT and MEE POK(locally developed platform))"

I heard muttered imprecations, like a dire curse. I knew then that the fate of my employment hung uneasily in the balance. For although he was not my direct master in the hierarchy (a hierarchy of immense convolution; of parallel and functional and regional accountabilities, a massive chart in which me and my coterie of colleagues in Singapore don't even occupy a box, being merely a footnote in an appendix on Section III-47b. Our immediate boss has his name underlined a few pages before that. His boss occupies an octagon with several others), I knew he had patrons and dimly-glimpsed connections which, (although as invisible amidst the aether of corporate politics as gravitation across parsecs, was just as effacious), coupled with his own finely honed malice, could end my employment in an instant if he so wished.

I have grown very attached to my apartment. Packing would be unbelievably sian.

"Jesus. Fuck. C'mon. Give me a number, man. We didn't hire you for nothing."

Sweat. Tension. Fear. I tore a ligament twisting in my seat across to the Bloomberg terminal; I called up a candlechart, a GPC, strings of historical vols; all of which would have woven a tale of meaning and contrived extrapolation to an experienced analyst; all of which meant confusion, sound and fury (sound coming from the insistent beep of my voice mail) , signifying nothing. I babbled. I made justifications that sounded lamer than the excuses a four-year-old-child gives to his mother to explain the trail of cookie crumbs leading from the kitchen to his bedroom. And I still couldn't give an Answer. The Black sounded more and more irate with every passing moment; harshly pointing out inconsistencies, errors, and flaws with my desperate, flailing guesses. Finally, on the verge, I blurted: "How would *you* do it? Factor analysis? Historical spreads? Run a Monte Carlo calc off PENDULUM? I need time to do that!"

Expecting a torrent of invective, or, worse, a cold statement that would end with me miserably spending the rest of the night updating my curriculum vitae and my jobsdb.com.sg profile, I did not expect an almost affable silence, as he appeared to consider what I was saying. Rashly emboldened, I threw more facts, problems, parameters, circumstances at him, explaining exactly why I, in my limited experience, even more limited remaining mental energy and an even more parlous pittance of expertise (which I had managed to conceal with the most profound mummery born of desperation during my job interview) , was unable to derive the number we required to complete the tapestry of figures he intended to present as a supplication to the Synarchs.

He considered everything I said, and I could hear the Black's rage in the void between continents. When I concluded with the words required of all who have been defeated by life - "So how?" - the silence grew, and blossomed.

I stole a glance at the clock tuned to London time. 4:34pm.

I awaited the words that would save, or damn me.

Then he said: "Use the Force."

Now, the Black's erudition is as legendary as his megalomania. He is said to, like Odin, know two-nine charms, who bartered an eye with Mimir for wisdom, who knows how to cut, read, stain, prove, evoke, score and send the runes. He can call forth torrents of value; he can oneiromance profit from disaster (in the wake of the Pope's death, his strategy was "long Kleenex, short Durex.").

In less pretentious terms; here is a man with a Master's degree from Berkeley, who knows more quant than I will ever in my lifetime; who has worked in the industry for 12 years (he once candidly told us that he had had an offer from Enron before joining us which he had intended to take, but *his* boss, a luminary driving an Aston Martin Vanquish in NY, had persuaded him over a caesar salad to come join us), who earns more money than I will in my lifetime barring a lottery win, and meanwhile there are pissed off Big Swinging Dick traders waiting for his word so that they can have the parameters to execute a 200x200 arb trade of potentially up to 80vols profit (Addendum: someone urged me to mention the monetary value involved in this transaction to lend context to the reader. Although she started hitting me on the head when I launched into a disquisition into the differences between notional, book and market value, the final number is approx 175m USD, which is actually a fairly paltry sum. Another of the reasons why my work affords so much sadistic entertainment - rounding errors of up to a few million USD are considered OK) ; which if I have miscalculated can lead to a catastrophe akin to the sinking of Atlantis (ie. reduced profit and hence reduced shareholder value, to be rectified by the cost reduction and sadistic utils accrued through the scourging of incompetent employees, namely myself) or, even worse, cause them to withhold from making a trade, the opportunity cost of which will be exacted through their baying howls for blood (most certainly mine - for as Tony Soprano put it: "Money flows up, shit flows down.")

And the Black is telling me to use the fucking Force!

(normally I would not profane the Jedi way, but this was a trying time)

So I closed my eyes, and I meditated on the litany. Knowing that my feelings of anger would lead me to hate, and hate would lead me to the Dark Side, I sought to find that feeling of inner peace and oneness with that which connects all living things, that would unerringly guide me to my answer.

And as the scales fell from my eyes, I moved a pivot table; called up another spreadsheet, entered a few formulae - and I grasped an answer, like a revelation; my chemical wedding with the Ineffable, a moment that is, was and will always be.

I repeated the answer to the Black; an answer that was paltry compared to the revelation that had preceded it.

I could hear the grinding of mental gears as The Black ran my poor invocation through his grotesquely convoluted mind; and I held my breath as he said, grudgingly, like a miser parceling out guineas, in words of highest praise. "Good guess. I'll run with it. See you tomorrow." And the phone went dead.

"I hate those who see my life as an illusion of passion."

It's been about 9 months now since I moved down here, and longer than that since I blogged on Balderdash. Much water under the bridge, as the saying goes.

Gabriel himself has warned me:

"paradox of popularity - people read because you're honest, but as your readership grows you've to become less honest as real life and online life collide, with real world consequences. never very public a person. not much diff. few qualms offend/insult if necessary, try to retain intellectual honesty even with people I know. fewer qualms than most, but almost court martial of course. safe: criticise institutions, not people. assume everyone gonna read. self conscious, write for audience? 02 archives. Many read, members fam. the stuff I write is either too private for even friends to read (and this v rare now that slavery is ended) or public enough for everyone to read. very little in between. once in a while you feel like being exhibitionistic and share private stuff with the world. catharsis sometimes. other times the thrill."

I think about that; and I think about why I stopped blogging. Mainly it was due to an absence of anything meaningful or original to add to the blogosphere - the gamut of blogdom these days encompasses the entire spectrum from the degenerate, to the banal, to the profoundly intellectual, to the pretentious, to the heart-rending, to the sadistic, to the juvenile - the prime disadvantage of a geometrically progressive increase in hyperlinks is that it raises the probability that someone reading what I've written has seen it all before, and done better. Also, it was partly out of a niggling fear of unintended chains of consequence (small, incestuous, net-linked world), and partly because I detest monologues to a profane audience, although those of you who know me in person might claim otherwise:)

But in the end, Gabriel had provoked me by his bald misrepresentation of one of my more cherished opinions to come back on.

Dom: "you should start blogging again. you could probably get a loyal following yourself (like gabriel)"

me: "probably, but it's also partly the same reason why i stopped trawling irc for one night stands. it's too much effort for virtually no payoff. the needle vs haystack factor is kind of daunting."

Unlike Gabriel who prefers quotations, links, articles, political opinions, and intellectual essays, I have a penchant for wholesale ranting about the effluvium of my daily experiences, meta-blog feelings, mise en scenes.

In any event, onto a careful dissection of his facetiousness.

>"I find, though, that the author's premise of "one and only one chance, otherwise the >ignificance of all is nullied" is fallacious."

The author's premise does not draw itself in such invalid syllogisms. The basic axiom, which context you have warped, is that there is "one and only one chance" at attaining a very specific End. (and you know what End that is). It does not intend the obviously fallacious argument that there is only one chance for everything.

>But to adopt an "all or nothing", "one time or never" approach (which he claims to favour in his >dealings and actions, despite the dictates of reality) is surely ridiculous.

I admit I favour this; I also confess that reality forces compromises on me I find distasteful and insulting but necessary and compelling. However, unlike you and your amoral cynicism, and your base deification of the lowest common denominator in all your dealings with humanity, I believe in, to facilely praraphrase Oscar Wilde: "looking at the stars, even when lying in the gutter". Whereas I find nothing but contempt for the humanity in the aggregate, it is only in the sense of the individual that we can be morally accountable and accounted for - and exalted.

Even in your atrophied emotional state, Gabriel, don't you think it's debasing to simply believe that you can keep moving on, keep looking for something better; that the Moment which you had, and cherished - and lost - can simply be replaced at the drop of a hat by the endless pursuit of meaning through replacement?

To sum up:

a) that quote was meant to represent a very specific set of circumstances and situation
b) it does not apply to all situations - for instance, if i failed to brew the elixir of immortality on my first try, it is a circumstance that demands I try again to attain a tangible success which is measured not in fruitless attempts, but in the finality of duration. i am not demeaned in anyway by trying again and again in this case until i succeed or shuffle off this mortal coil, although there might be an opportunity cost in that the time spent on research could be spent on other pursuits of entertainments.
c) however, in the very specific situation that quote refers to, it is an observable condition in human affairs that we are increasingly willing to forego - particularly in this one aspect of our lives - what we thought was meaningful in the pursuit of immediate gratification; churlishly squandering it when it is ours; and lamenting after it only it in its absence. "That which we obtain too cheaply; we esteem too lightly."
d) while I respect the rights of others to hold a contrary opinion, it does not preclude me from seeing their attempts at "moving on" and "second chances" as a futile, puerile illusion, and from expressing my scant regard of it as so

Parable on the frank and utter evil of the human race.

A few weeks ago, a Devastator (Siege Tank in or Starcraft parlance - to help organise the Byzantine power structure of my workplace, I prefer to use Dune 2/Command & Conquer units to define levels of authority) from London came to visit us, along with a Heavy Tank.

(the Black is also a Devastator; he reports to several Death's Hand/Hands of Nod, who in turn report to Ion Cannons, all the way up to the Padishah Emperor/Cain. At the other extreme, there's me - the splat that remains after a a Harvester runs over infantry units. My immediate senior is a Rocket Trooper or a Trike).

The Devastator was amazingly friendly; he gave me some spurious words of praise (which proves that the time invested in tongue-to-ass skill enhancement have paid off), and basically moved around like a Cardinal amongst the clergy (ie. ring-kissing, genuflections, fervent prayers for deliverance, many benedictions). Anyway, it came to pass that the Devastator was working on the PC next to mine; when he asked me if I could help him print out a document which he e-mailed to me (his account was misconfigured, it appears).

Now, as I printed it out, he stood over me, and ordered me to delete the document (and to show that we are truly a meritocratic environment, he displayed his technical acumen by asking me to empty my Recycle Box.) as it was highly confidential. As I adhere to the highest standards of professional and ethical behaviour, I had kept a copy, and I perused it after the Devastator had rolled off for a power lunch with several other Heavy Tanks and Carryalls.

The document pertained to a global departmental re-org - and as it was a working copy, it included a lot of personal annotations and comments by the Devastator. Most of it was pretty brutally candid denunciations of processes and personal flaws of key individuals. However, what struck me was, under the topic of "Efficiency Gains - Headcount Reduction", a highlighted footnote:

"It would be economically feasible to put some of these poor bastards out of their misery."

Now, at this point I will confess I felt suffused by a radiant awe at the frank and utter evil of the Devastator; and I find myself wondering if that footnote will remain in the final presentation to the Ion Cannon/Weather Dominator/Death's Hand council.

To add insult to injury, the entire initiative has been codenamed, "Project Baboon."

I amused myself for a moment wondering if I was one of the baboons.