It is just after the Presidential Inauguration in 2009. Former VP Dick Cheney is standing with entourage in a rich and spacious residential area of Georgetown. Death stands with shroud and scythe over Cheney, drawing Cheney’s attention away from messing with his gloves.
Death
I want your soul.
Cheney
(putting on scarf) Huh? What do you want? I’m busy. Talk to my secretary and schedule something. Right now I’m in a hurry.
Death
(continues to hover over Cheney) I want your soul.
Cheney
What? Did the Democrats send you for the sake of blaming me for the economic downturn that started with Clinton? Or maybe as a ploy for trying to overthrow actual balanced governing with an extreme leftist supposed new, New Deal? Or the intended health care legislation that the Democrats want to bulldoze true Americans, who are fighting to sustain their way of life at such a difficult time? No dice. It’s not my administration… I mean, I’m not in the administration any more. Bugger off.
Death
I came here because it is your time.
Cheney
Time? For what? All I can see is it’s time for the Republicans to make sure that poor schmucks like you don’t bother me. I can’t do what you conspiracy freaks think I can do, especially not now. I’m just your fellow citizen. Now scram. Get out.
Death
It is your time to die.
Cheney
(yells to his group offstage) Security! Seriously, I can’t talk to you if you are going to threaten me like this.
Death
It’s not a threat. It’s the truth.
Cheney
I’m on my way to a doctor’s appointment. If you’ll excuse me (aid comes rushing to him) Get this joker out of here.
Death
They cannot see me.
Cheney
What do you mean they can’t see you? (Looks at the aid) You see this joker right? What are you looking at me like that for? You think I’m nuts? Feh, go get John, he’ll be of use to you. Scat.
Death
You must come with me.
Cheney
Come with you? (low laugh) I just told you I’m on my way to a doctor’s appointment. I can’t come with you, even if you might possibly be… whoever you are. You aren’t doing some porn movie are you? I can’t believe Ron Paul let himself get mixed up in that. Where’s the cameras? Seriously, where are they?
Death
(sighs) I don’t like to reiterate. I simply want your soul.
Cheney
Am I being punked? Eh? Is that it? One of those crazy leftist entertainment shows? I tell ya, I won’t give in. This has little to do with anything of importance. Off with ya now.
Death
You cannot leave.
(scenery fades to white, mist)
Cheney
Well of course I have to. Hey, were did everyone go? What did you do? Is this an ambush?
Death
It is your time.
Cheney
My time? For what? It’s time for me to being making a public spectacle of you. You’re treating me like I’m some sort of pawn to be played. Well look here buddy, I could have you wiped out of your district faster than you can say Tom Delay.
Death
I do not care for earthly ambitions. I am here for your soul.
Cheney
(sneers) Too, late, I already sold it for my political ambitions. Isn’t that what you want to hear? Or is that too much of a shock for you? (smiles)
Death
Do you deal with your circumstance so lightly?
Cheney
No, of course not. Which is why I’m trying to tell you to get lost. Hey, what happened to the street? Oh, I get it. You must have slipped me some drug, or it’s some new gas terrorists are using against us. This is a plot not only against the country! You ingrate, what the fuck do you take me for?
Death
A mortal.
Cheney
That’s fucking right! You miserable cur, you don’t know the value of human life. Why do you continue to traipse upon the fragile psyche of this country? Always threatening us with the wrath of the great Allah.
Death
I am not religious, I am Death.
Cheney
But don’t you get the greatness of family? Of community? Don’t you have ties to something that makes you human, you damned twit of a terrorist?
Death
Do you still have ties? A loved one? Your daughter?
Cheney
Of course I love my daughter. There’s no question where my heart lies.
Death
I thought it was in the hands of a doctor.
Cheney
(He chuckles harshly) That heart? That’s probably somewhere out in some toxic medical disposal unit rotting away at this point. You’ve read up on me. At least you have some sense in your head, you fucking moron. I don’t have time for this though. Is there some antidote to this? Or is this some sort of a Goddamned dream state? Are you supposed to be something else?
Death
I am merely Death.
Cheney
You’re the death of me, you damned fuck. This is a waste of my time. If you give a damn about life, you’d listen to me and what I have to say. Which first and foremost is, let me GO!
Death
It has not been my decision that you should die now. It is fated.
Cheney
Fate!? Fate? What is this horse shit you’re trying to pull? Fate has nothing to do with it. It’s your own intent that I should be here, for some reason that you’re not saying.
Death
There is no reason. Only fate. It is your time.
Cheney
(quiets down) Now you listen to me. I have been more than reasonable with your attitude. What is it you want?
Death
I want your soul.
Cheney
I see. And how would you assume to obtain said soul?
Death
By you coming with me.
Cheney
That’s not an answer.
Death
It is not for you to understand.
Cheney
I think if it’s my soul, I should understand what it is you are to do.
Death
Mortals would not understand. You don’t understand or believe in Fate, even though it exists. This process of souls is eternal and unchanging, yet you do not believe, much less could you understand.
Cheney
I see, you don’t think I’m intelligent enough for it.
Death
It has nothing to do with worldly intelligence.
Cheney
But you said it was because I would not understand. How is that not a part of intelligence? What? Is it a matter of intuition? Something else? A vision? Are you getting all new-agey crap on me? What?
Death
No mortal can understand the process. They only need to know when their time has come.
Cheney
But that doesn’t give the mortal a chance to rebut. What if there’s a better reason for them to stay?
Death
That is taken into consideration with fate, not death. Death resides on the decision of fate.
Cheney
So it’s a matter of who I have to talk to in order to change this? Who do I talk to, to get you to change your mind? This fate? Is it a person or a department?
Death
It is fate. It merely is a part of being.
Cheney
But if it’s a part of being, then it would be something that I could access, right?
Death
You cannot access it in some mortal way. It creates decisions in a way past your reasoned comprehension.
Cheney
Then it’s intuition, right? Something that has to do with being? What has more to do with being than being in the moment? You can’t argue with that.
Death
It is not to be argued.
Cheney
Are you saying this is some sort of fascistic Nazi regime here? I thought I stilled lived in the USA.
Death
This is one more reason why you could not understand. You talk politics as a hypocrite by your own standards. Your words and mind are closed. How could you be open to something that is beyond you?
Cheney
You’re a fucking leftist! Get out of that robe! This ain’t no costume party!
Death
(opens robe) Is this the embodiment of a leftist?
Cheney
(shaking and white) No… No…
Death
You will go with me.
Cheney
No… No…
Death
(leads Cheney) We will go.
Cheney
No… (shakes out of it) No! I beg of you! Whatever you are! There is no reason I should die! Why am I being cornered! Why me?
Death
Death is not for you alone. It is not special, it is common. It does not discriminate by race, gender or creed. All people see me at some point.
Cheney
But you… Why? Why now? Where are you taking me? What did I do?
Death
You have merely lived the run of your life.
Cheney
But is this fate? Can fate be changed?
Death
(pauses) There is always a possibility.
Cheney
Is this something that I can do anything about?
Death
There is always a possibility.
Cheney
Is there a how? (tears up)
Death
There will be time enough for these questions to be answered in the great eternal cycle of life.
(Street returns)
Cheney
Wha… What’s happening? John? John’s there?
Death
You are to go to the hospital.
Cheney
Really? What? I… I don’t understand.
Death
You cannot tell anyone you have seen me, for they will not understand.
(fades out of Cheney’s sight)
Cheney
(grasps chest, falls to knees, says to no one in particular) I’ve had a vision of Death.
Death
Now you must continue on your journey to the hospital. Go to your comrades.
Cheney
(Gets up, still staring into space) We need to go to the hospital. Now. Move it.
Death
I will go with you for the journey, and fate will be the determining factor.
Cheney
Fate… Fate… Yes. Fate. My fate to go see the doctor, my soul in his hands…
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Re-cracked.
Cracked Soup
Woman
The day is sunny despite a haze of smog. A highly-educated, white, mid-height, average-looking woman walks into a suburban diner. The diner is clean and brightly lit from the many windows. There is a diverse demographic of people filling about three-quarters of the total available tables, booths and stools at the counter.
The second-generation Greek owner, with a bear-like build, stands behind the counter that separates the relatively open floor plan of the diner from the kitchen. The woman is reminded of the men at her office, the ones she usually gets away from during her precious lunch hour. She can’t stand being near the overbearing fake-kindness of the bullies, but somehow the mood in the diner lightens this feeling. The owner wipes some dessert plate dishes clean with a dish towel. While standing there, he chats with two well-dressed, white women who are slouched over their cups of tomato soup.
The highly-educated woman smiles at the owner and grabs a table, almost dead center in the middle of the room. The woman does not know the owner well, but she’s been to this diner more than once. He seems like a genuinely nice man, but she’s glad for the distance, and the small part of the day she spends here, away from her officious coworkers. Among other things, she likes the open floor plan, the brightly lit atmosphere and the tomato soup.
It is lunch time, and the woman wants to order food before going back to work. She goes up to the counter with her medium-sized, vinyl purse that has a metallic clasp in front. The owner sees her and puts down the dish he was drying. “Hello, how can I help you today?”
“Hi there, I’m thinking I would like a cup of that tomato soup. I’ll take a side salad with it, with French dressing.”
“Would you like anything to drink with that?” The owner asks.
“A cup of coffee and some water would be very nice.”
“Any dessert?”
The woman smiles again. “No thank you, I’ve got to watch the sugar intake while at work. Otherwise, your scones do look lovely.” She nods her head over to the small plastic casing filled with assorted fresh-baked pastry on top of the counter to her right, past the two women sitting on the stools. The slouching women smile back.
“Well then, you should come back after work and treat yourself. Too much work and not enough treats makes for a hard week during such rough times. It’s part of why I reduced their price.”
“That’s part of why I came in. You have extremely affordable rates. It’s definitely appreciated.”
“Thank you. It’s good business to keep people coming in with low rates than make only a few people come in for what? Less food and higher prices? Business isn’t just about the money. It’s about what I can do to make someone’s day a little nicer. I often find I get more out of talking to people than I do with the process of making sure I stay solvent.” He sadly chuckles.
The working woman seems warmed by his comment, and gives him an appreciative smile.
The owner goes back to the cash register at his right and totals the order. “All right. The total is $6.22.”
“Like I said, very reasonable.” The woman unclasps her purse and picks through its meager contents to find her pocketbook. She pulls out three bills from it, one five dollar bill and two one dollar bills, and hands them to the owner over the counter. He rings open the cash register with a mixture of automated beeps and the metallic ca-junk of the drawer, which is released into his gut with a soft pffld.
The owner places the bills in each pile in the drawer, and pulls out three quarters and three pennies. With a smile, the owner then hands the change to the woman and says, “Your order will be out soon.”
The woman smiles back and closes her purse. She turns to go to the table she had marked with setting down her coat across the back of a chair. The spring air was chilly enough even with the bright blazing sun to need a coat when going outside.
However, once she gets to the table, she is aware of how much she needs to use the lady’s room. A half hour before coming to the diner, she drank an entire twenty-ounce bottle of Aquafina. So before sitting down, she figures she should have enough time before the food comes to go to the restroom. She sets her purse down on the chair and turns to the direction of the restrooms, which are in the far left corner of the counter with the cash register.
Owner
The woman leaves her purse at the table, and she thinks it won’t be snatched? She’s simple, no street smarts. Leave it to a man. I have two women waiting on me, asking me for every little thing, because they know, I know. It’s no problem. I want to help, they need my help. I will help.
So the woman comes from somewhere, maybe the bathroom. Nothing to me, I have two women already waiting on me. They want refills on their drinks, extra napkins, or they ask, how much is the apple pie with ice cream? I show them the apple pie already comes with ice cream, any flavor, no extra charge for the ice cream. I’m a nice guy, they should have something sweet, right? It’s rough times. I want to help, make things good. Keep people happy, keep people coming back. Eh, who wouldn’t when you run a business, right?
That woman doesn’t get it. I offer her sweets, she refuses. She makes me feel like I’m not getting through to her I can be a good guy. Okay, no skin off my nose. She chooses her own food, something simple. Like her. She’s classy, she’s a business woman. Okay. She likes my food, so I say, okay.
I tell her she makes a mistake, leaving her purse. She doesn’t like me reminding her, I think. I tell her, I’m glad she’s here, I thought she left. I tell her that. She tells me no, she was in the bathroom. I then say to her, I look out for her, things like money should not be left laying around, especially when she can’t keep an eye on it. I can’t keep an eye on it, I have other people to serve. There’s an old couple at a table at one corner of the room, and a guy reading his paper at the other. What if I were to get busy all of the sudden? I’d need eyes growing out of the back of my head just to make sure I get everybody’s orders.
She gets uppity, telling me my place is empty, no one would take it. I tell her I’m just telling her because I’m nice. She doesn’t get it. Okay. I’m a nice guy.
Man
I need lunch, but I don’t really know this particular diner that well. There’s a soup special written on the black board out front of it, and the place is close enough that I won’t be completely soaked if it rains. I forgot my umbrella. I didn’t feel like taking anything with me but my leather jacket. I guess it’s my attempt at being a rebel. But really, I just forgot. So many frickin’ things to think about, I needed to get away, away from that job. Too many people making noise, it’s an office for God’s sake! Why the hell are they talking all the time? Customer service doesn’t have to be so frickin’ loud from two corridors away! I just can’t stand this job being so... detached. But why get to know these people? They’d just start yacking my ear off, and then I’d never get them to shut up.
Inside the diner, it’s a sparse but comfy place, two women at the counter, and… the owner is yelling at a customer. It can’t be the owner. No, it looks like it’s got to be the owner, the guy’s wearing a paper hat that covers at least some of that bald spot in the middle of his thick black hair. And a green order pad and pen is sticking out the front right pocket of the guy’s slightly-stained apron. Either he’s the owner or a head cook. In this small edge-of-the-town suburban sprawl neighborhood, often that’s the same thing.
I would usually want to get out of a situation like this, but I’m kind of fascinated by the weirdness of this scene. I deal with diplomacy so much with office politics that I would rather have a little normal human interaction, perhaps wait my turn. Not to be yelled at, but rather to find out what they were yelling about. Could actually be something important, or perhaps she’s trying to haggle a price down. I don’t know, but it’s kind of intriguing. That, and this is the only sit-down place that’s close to work. Those scones do look good in that case. Even one of those with some coffee would be a nice departure from the 7-11 equivalent.
It looks like I’ll have to wait to get served however, I can’t seen anyone else in here besides the short Mexican cooks near the back, and the only waitress is completely across the room talking to some other customers.
Woman
A man walked in while the woman conversed with the owner about the purse. The man is white, thin and wearing a slightly-worn leather coat with well fitting jeans. He waits behind the woman, who is starting to get a little more annoyed with the owner. “Part of the economic problems we are dealing with is couched in public trust. If I can’t trust that a place like this is safe not just for my purse but for me, then why should I go out at all?”
The man looks to the table with the woman’s coat and purse. He only caught the word “purse” because he was preoccupied with trying to see if one of the cooks would look his way. The man goes over to the table and picks up the purse, going over to stand right behind the woman and tries to get her attention.
But the woman is listening to the owner. “Of course my place is safe! But it’s only when I know the people who come in here. I don’t know everybody here, and I don’t know you as well. How am I going to know what you’re thinking?”
The man refrains from talking to either the woman or the owner and scratches his head. The one waitress that was out on the floor has disappeared, and other people have entered the diner and have seated themselves. The place is almost at seating capacity by this time.
So the man shrugs and turns around, deciding to leave. The owner sees the man walk away, but instead of seeing the man as someone that wasn’t helped, the owner sees what is in the man’s hand. The woman’s purse. “You see!? There is someone with your purse in hand!” He raises his voice to the man, who is almost out the door, “Stop there! Hold it!”
Man
I saw the woman’s purse, but I did not pick it up like that. I picked it up after the owner decided that I was the random schmuck who would snatch her purse.
He pointed at me after they’ve been arguing over it. I think he did it because I was starting to get nosey, just standing there instead of running away, like I would usually do, like any sane person would do. But I made myself plainly available to be used to make his point. I got that’s what he was trying to do, but he ended up being the schmuck, at least to me.
Just to clarify, not to make the point but clarify, I go over to the purse in question. I’m ready to hurl the thing at the owner, because he’s making me a bit angry and worked up, my blood pressure is getting out of whack from no food. I wanted soup, not a carnival ride. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I picked up the purse, and I just kind of stood there, wondering why I had actually picked up the dang thing. And then, the owner really went ballistic.
Owner
The man had the purse! What was I supposed to act like, happy? The woman had gotten me all upset, for no good reason. I had only been trying to help her. What did she want me to do, not react? The man had come in and proved my point. He chose an unfortunate time. It was not my fault, I am usually quite good with my customers.
Woman
The owner moves towards the man. But the man doesn’t like the way the owner is talking to him, so smirking to the owner, he leaves more quickly. The owner is taken by surprise. With a disconcerted expression on his face, he looks for the woman to tell her off, but then also to tell her he’ll call the police. But the woman has already snapped up her coat and quickly follows the man out the door.
The man walked quickly, and he is already half-way down the block.
Man
I realize I’ve got the purse still with me when I leave. I didn’t think the owner would come after me, so I panicked. I wasn’t thinking about why he was coming after me.
I realize I have the dang thing with me when I’m about to shove my hands in my pockets. I then feel more panic seeing the thing there, thinking, what the frick. I want to drop the thing and be as far away from it as I can. But I can’t let it go.
Woman
The woman comes up yelling for him to stop. But, there is no malice behind her yell, since she sees the man has stopped and is staring at her.
“Is this yours?” He asks shakily.
“Yes.” She puffs out, after running in heels on the rough patches of uneven, split concrete that line the sidewalk. She puts her hand out for the purse, and he quickly gives it to her.
“I really didn’t know what had happened, I heard you talking to the owner, and I tried to get your attention to ask if it was yours. I didn’t realize I had left with it, and that’s why the owner was yelling after me… That makes more sense now…”
The woman smiles and hugs the man.
Man
This is f’ed up. First I think it’s weird in the diner with the woman and the owner arguing, then I don’t like the owner coming after me, but the woman runs after me, takes the purse from me without accusing me, and then hugs me? Uh-uh. Too weird. I need away, I need detached. No more attempts to go to the “real world” like the people in customer service call it. Give me my simple equations in web-languages and fixing crashed pages that need to unload some of their usage into other venues. Perhaps I’ll have to try this whole WOW world after all. I was never much of a gamer, but at least those people let you have your role play without going outside of the lines already drawn.
I can’t believe the woman hugged me. I can’t take it. She’s too plain and assertive to feel like I could talk to her, and I don’t feel like talking to her. I feel like telling her off, but instead I just say, “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why you people are crazy enough to be acting out like that. Just leave me alone. You have your purse. Go back to your place and just leave me alone.”
She looks a bit stunned from that. Good, she’s a case herself. I turn the other direction and walk down the street the other way, towards the 7-11. I’ll get a Campbell’s cup of Soup-at-Hand instead of going back to that nutty diner. I’m through with people fixing my food for me, maybe a microwave will be less emotionally taxing.
Woman
The day is sunny despite a haze of smog. A highly-educated, white, mid-height, average-looking woman walks into a suburban diner. The diner is clean and brightly lit from the many windows. There is a diverse demographic of people filling about three-quarters of the total available tables, booths and stools at the counter.
The second-generation Greek owner, with a bear-like build, stands behind the counter that separates the relatively open floor plan of the diner from the kitchen. The woman is reminded of the men at her office, the ones she usually gets away from during her precious lunch hour. She can’t stand being near the overbearing fake-kindness of the bullies, but somehow the mood in the diner lightens this feeling. The owner wipes some dessert plate dishes clean with a dish towel. While standing there, he chats with two well-dressed, white women who are slouched over their cups of tomato soup.
The highly-educated woman smiles at the owner and grabs a table, almost dead center in the middle of the room. The woman does not know the owner well, but she’s been to this diner more than once. He seems like a genuinely nice man, but she’s glad for the distance, and the small part of the day she spends here, away from her officious coworkers. Among other things, she likes the open floor plan, the brightly lit atmosphere and the tomato soup.
It is lunch time, and the woman wants to order food before going back to work. She goes up to the counter with her medium-sized, vinyl purse that has a metallic clasp in front. The owner sees her and puts down the dish he was drying. “Hello, how can I help you today?”
“Hi there, I’m thinking I would like a cup of that tomato soup. I’ll take a side salad with it, with French dressing.”
“Would you like anything to drink with that?” The owner asks.
“A cup of coffee and some water would be very nice.”
“Any dessert?”
The woman smiles again. “No thank you, I’ve got to watch the sugar intake while at work. Otherwise, your scones do look lovely.” She nods her head over to the small plastic casing filled with assorted fresh-baked pastry on top of the counter to her right, past the two women sitting on the stools. The slouching women smile back.
“Well then, you should come back after work and treat yourself. Too much work and not enough treats makes for a hard week during such rough times. It’s part of why I reduced their price.”
“That’s part of why I came in. You have extremely affordable rates. It’s definitely appreciated.”
“Thank you. It’s good business to keep people coming in with low rates than make only a few people come in for what? Less food and higher prices? Business isn’t just about the money. It’s about what I can do to make someone’s day a little nicer. I often find I get more out of talking to people than I do with the process of making sure I stay solvent.” He sadly chuckles.
The working woman seems warmed by his comment, and gives him an appreciative smile.
The owner goes back to the cash register at his right and totals the order. “All right. The total is $6.22.”
“Like I said, very reasonable.” The woman unclasps her purse and picks through its meager contents to find her pocketbook. She pulls out three bills from it, one five dollar bill and two one dollar bills, and hands them to the owner over the counter. He rings open the cash register with a mixture of automated beeps and the metallic ca-junk of the drawer, which is released into his gut with a soft pffld.
The owner places the bills in each pile in the drawer, and pulls out three quarters and three pennies. With a smile, the owner then hands the change to the woman and says, “Your order will be out soon.”
The woman smiles back and closes her purse. She turns to go to the table she had marked with setting down her coat across the back of a chair. The spring air was chilly enough even with the bright blazing sun to need a coat when going outside.
However, once she gets to the table, she is aware of how much she needs to use the lady’s room. A half hour before coming to the diner, she drank an entire twenty-ounce bottle of Aquafina. So before sitting down, she figures she should have enough time before the food comes to go to the restroom. She sets her purse down on the chair and turns to the direction of the restrooms, which are in the far left corner of the counter with the cash register.
Owner
The woman leaves her purse at the table, and she thinks it won’t be snatched? She’s simple, no street smarts. Leave it to a man. I have two women waiting on me, asking me for every little thing, because they know, I know. It’s no problem. I want to help, they need my help. I will help.
So the woman comes from somewhere, maybe the bathroom. Nothing to me, I have two women already waiting on me. They want refills on their drinks, extra napkins, or they ask, how much is the apple pie with ice cream? I show them the apple pie already comes with ice cream, any flavor, no extra charge for the ice cream. I’m a nice guy, they should have something sweet, right? It’s rough times. I want to help, make things good. Keep people happy, keep people coming back. Eh, who wouldn’t when you run a business, right?
That woman doesn’t get it. I offer her sweets, she refuses. She makes me feel like I’m not getting through to her I can be a good guy. Okay, no skin off my nose. She chooses her own food, something simple. Like her. She’s classy, she’s a business woman. Okay. She likes my food, so I say, okay.
I tell her she makes a mistake, leaving her purse. She doesn’t like me reminding her, I think. I tell her, I’m glad she’s here, I thought she left. I tell her that. She tells me no, she was in the bathroom. I then say to her, I look out for her, things like money should not be left laying around, especially when she can’t keep an eye on it. I can’t keep an eye on it, I have other people to serve. There’s an old couple at a table at one corner of the room, and a guy reading his paper at the other. What if I were to get busy all of the sudden? I’d need eyes growing out of the back of my head just to make sure I get everybody’s orders.
She gets uppity, telling me my place is empty, no one would take it. I tell her I’m just telling her because I’m nice. She doesn’t get it. Okay. I’m a nice guy.
Man
I need lunch, but I don’t really know this particular diner that well. There’s a soup special written on the black board out front of it, and the place is close enough that I won’t be completely soaked if it rains. I forgot my umbrella. I didn’t feel like taking anything with me but my leather jacket. I guess it’s my attempt at being a rebel. But really, I just forgot. So many frickin’ things to think about, I needed to get away, away from that job. Too many people making noise, it’s an office for God’s sake! Why the hell are they talking all the time? Customer service doesn’t have to be so frickin’ loud from two corridors away! I just can’t stand this job being so... detached. But why get to know these people? They’d just start yacking my ear off, and then I’d never get them to shut up.
Inside the diner, it’s a sparse but comfy place, two women at the counter, and… the owner is yelling at a customer. It can’t be the owner. No, it looks like it’s got to be the owner, the guy’s wearing a paper hat that covers at least some of that bald spot in the middle of his thick black hair. And a green order pad and pen is sticking out the front right pocket of the guy’s slightly-stained apron. Either he’s the owner or a head cook. In this small edge-of-the-town suburban sprawl neighborhood, often that’s the same thing.
I would usually want to get out of a situation like this, but I’m kind of fascinated by the weirdness of this scene. I deal with diplomacy so much with office politics that I would rather have a little normal human interaction, perhaps wait my turn. Not to be yelled at, but rather to find out what they were yelling about. Could actually be something important, or perhaps she’s trying to haggle a price down. I don’t know, but it’s kind of intriguing. That, and this is the only sit-down place that’s close to work. Those scones do look good in that case. Even one of those with some coffee would be a nice departure from the 7-11 equivalent.
It looks like I’ll have to wait to get served however, I can’t seen anyone else in here besides the short Mexican cooks near the back, and the only waitress is completely across the room talking to some other customers.
Woman
A man walked in while the woman conversed with the owner about the purse. The man is white, thin and wearing a slightly-worn leather coat with well fitting jeans. He waits behind the woman, who is starting to get a little more annoyed with the owner. “Part of the economic problems we are dealing with is couched in public trust. If I can’t trust that a place like this is safe not just for my purse but for me, then why should I go out at all?”
The man looks to the table with the woman’s coat and purse. He only caught the word “purse” because he was preoccupied with trying to see if one of the cooks would look his way. The man goes over to the table and picks up the purse, going over to stand right behind the woman and tries to get her attention.
But the woman is listening to the owner. “Of course my place is safe! But it’s only when I know the people who come in here. I don’t know everybody here, and I don’t know you as well. How am I going to know what you’re thinking?”
The man refrains from talking to either the woman or the owner and scratches his head. The one waitress that was out on the floor has disappeared, and other people have entered the diner and have seated themselves. The place is almost at seating capacity by this time.
So the man shrugs and turns around, deciding to leave. The owner sees the man walk away, but instead of seeing the man as someone that wasn’t helped, the owner sees what is in the man’s hand. The woman’s purse. “You see!? There is someone with your purse in hand!” He raises his voice to the man, who is almost out the door, “Stop there! Hold it!”
Man
I saw the woman’s purse, but I did not pick it up like that. I picked it up after the owner decided that I was the random schmuck who would snatch her purse.
He pointed at me after they’ve been arguing over it. I think he did it because I was starting to get nosey, just standing there instead of running away, like I would usually do, like any sane person would do. But I made myself plainly available to be used to make his point. I got that’s what he was trying to do, but he ended up being the schmuck, at least to me.
Just to clarify, not to make the point but clarify, I go over to the purse in question. I’m ready to hurl the thing at the owner, because he’s making me a bit angry and worked up, my blood pressure is getting out of whack from no food. I wanted soup, not a carnival ride. I wasn’t thinking clearly when I picked up the purse, and I just kind of stood there, wondering why I had actually picked up the dang thing. And then, the owner really went ballistic.
Owner
The man had the purse! What was I supposed to act like, happy? The woman had gotten me all upset, for no good reason. I had only been trying to help her. What did she want me to do, not react? The man had come in and proved my point. He chose an unfortunate time. It was not my fault, I am usually quite good with my customers.
Woman
The owner moves towards the man. But the man doesn’t like the way the owner is talking to him, so smirking to the owner, he leaves more quickly. The owner is taken by surprise. With a disconcerted expression on his face, he looks for the woman to tell her off, but then also to tell her he’ll call the police. But the woman has already snapped up her coat and quickly follows the man out the door.
The man walked quickly, and he is already half-way down the block.
Man
I realize I’ve got the purse still with me when I leave. I didn’t think the owner would come after me, so I panicked. I wasn’t thinking about why he was coming after me.
I realize I have the dang thing with me when I’m about to shove my hands in my pockets. I then feel more panic seeing the thing there, thinking, what the frick. I want to drop the thing and be as far away from it as I can. But I can’t let it go.
Woman
The woman comes up yelling for him to stop. But, there is no malice behind her yell, since she sees the man has stopped and is staring at her.
“Is this yours?” He asks shakily.
“Yes.” She puffs out, after running in heels on the rough patches of uneven, split concrete that line the sidewalk. She puts her hand out for the purse, and he quickly gives it to her.
“I really didn’t know what had happened, I heard you talking to the owner, and I tried to get your attention to ask if it was yours. I didn’t realize I had left with it, and that’s why the owner was yelling after me… That makes more sense now…”
The woman smiles and hugs the man.
Man
This is f’ed up. First I think it’s weird in the diner with the woman and the owner arguing, then I don’t like the owner coming after me, but the woman runs after me, takes the purse from me without accusing me, and then hugs me? Uh-uh. Too weird. I need away, I need detached. No more attempts to go to the “real world” like the people in customer service call it. Give me my simple equations in web-languages and fixing crashed pages that need to unload some of their usage into other venues. Perhaps I’ll have to try this whole WOW world after all. I was never much of a gamer, but at least those people let you have your role play without going outside of the lines already drawn.
I can’t believe the woman hugged me. I can’t take it. She’s too plain and assertive to feel like I could talk to her, and I don’t feel like talking to her. I feel like telling her off, but instead I just say, “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why you people are crazy enough to be acting out like that. Just leave me alone. You have your purse. Go back to your place and just leave me alone.”
She looks a bit stunned from that. Good, she’s a case herself. I turn the other direction and walk down the street the other way, towards the 7-11. I’ll get a Campbell’s cup of Soup-at-Hand instead of going back to that nutty diner. I’m through with people fixing my food for me, maybe a microwave will be less emotionally taxing.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Ink Man.
Cracked Soup
On a sunny day, a highly-educated, white, mid-height, average-looking woman walks into a suburban diner. The diner is clean, brightly lit from the many windows, and there is a diverse demographic of people filling about three-quarters of the total available tables, booths and stools at the counter. The bear-like build of the second-generation Greek owner stands behind the counter that separates the relatively open floor plan from the kitchen, wiping dishes dry with a dish towel. He chats with two well dressed white women slouched over their cups of tomato soup.
The highly-educated woman smiles at the owner and grabs a table that is almost dead center in the middle of the open floor space. The woman does not know the owner well, but she’s been to this diner more than once. Among other things, she likes the open floor plan, the brightly lit atmosphere and the tomato soup.
It is lunch time, and the woman wants to order food before going back to work. She goes up to the counter with her medium to small-sized vinyl purse with a metallic clasp in front. The owner sees her and puts down the dish he was drying. “Hello, how can I help you today?”
“Hi there, I’m thinking I would like a cup of that tomato soup. I’ll take a side salad with it, with French dressing.”
“Would you like anything to drink with that?” The owner asks.
“A cup of coffee and some water would be very nice.”
“Any dessert?”
The woman smiles again. “No thank you, I’ve got to watch the sugar intake while at work. Otherwise, your scones do look lovely.” She gestures with a nod of her head over to the small plastic casing filled with assorted fresh-baked pastry on top of the counter to her right, past the two women sitting on the stools. The women smile back.
“Well then, you should come back after work and treat yourself. Too much work and not enough treats makes for a hard week during such rough times. It’s part of why I reduced their price.”
“That’s part of why I came in. You have extremely affordable rates. It’s definitely appreciated.”
“Thank you. It’s all I can think of to do to keep business going. Business isn’t just about the money for me, it’s about what I can do to make someone’s day a little nicer. I often find I get more out of talking to people than I do with the process of making sure I stay solvent.” He sadly chuckles.
The working woman seems warmed by his comment, and gives him an appreciative smile.
The owner goes back to the cash register at his right and totals the order. “All right. The total is $6.22.”
“Like I said, very reasonable.” The woman unclasps her purse and picks through its meager contents to find her pocketbook. She pulls out three bills from it, one five dollar bill and two one dollar bills. She hands them to the owner over the counter, and he rings open the cash register with a mixture of automated beeps and the metallic ca-junk of the drawer being released into the owners’ gut.
The owner places the bills in each pile of like bills in the drawer, and pulls out three quarters and three pennies. With a smile, the owner then hands the change to the woman and says, “Your order will be out soon.”
The woman smiles back and closes her purse. She turns to go to the table she had marked with setting down her coat across the back of a chair. The spring air was chilly enough even with the bright blazing sun to need a coat when going outside. Yet the woman was quite comfortable inside.
However, once she gets to the table, she is aware of how much she needs to use the lady’s room. She had just drunk an entire twenty-ounced bottle of Aquafina before coming to the diner. So before sitting down, she figures she should have enough time before the food comes to go to the restroom. She sets her purse down on the chair and turns to the direction of the restrooms, in the far left corner of the counter.
Once she comes out of the restroom, the owner comes up to her and says, “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here. I saw your purse laying out and I wondered where you had gone to.”
The woman replies, “I was just in the washroom.”
“As we were saying during the hardness of these times, it’s good to look after one another when things and money are so precious.”
The woman looks at the owner with an air of caution. “I’m a little bit surprised to how concerned you are about me leaving my purse unattended for such a short period of time just because it’s pretty obvious to other people around if someone were to take it.”
“Yes, this is a public place. But I nor anyone else is required to look after other people’s property. I just brought it to your attention out of concern for your property and wellbeing.”
The woman shifts her weight, standing in her high heels that still only bring her up to being six inches shorter than the owner. “Yet there’s no one in here that seems remotely suspicious as to whether or not they would need money enough to steel something in an open public space. I appreciate the sentiment behind your concern, but it’s highly unnecessary.”
As the woman talks to the owner, a man comes into the diner. He is white, thin and wearing a slightly-worn leather coat with well fitting jeans. He looks over at the counter and sees no one there but the short Hispanic cooks near the back. The only waitress he sees is completely across the room talking to already-seated customers. Yet right in front of him is the woman and the owner. The man recognizes the owner as part of the diner when he sees the owner’s paper hat covering the bald spot in the middle of his thick black hair as well as the green order pad and pen sticking out the front right pocket of the owner’s slightly-stained apron.
The man waits behind the woman, who is starting to get a little more annoyed with the owner. “Part of the economic problems we are dealing with is couched in public trust. If I can’t trust that a place like this is safe not just for my purse but for me, then why should I go out at all?”
The man looks to the table with the woman’s coat and purse. He only caught the word “purse” because he was trying to see if one of the cooks would look his way. The man goes over to the table and picks up the purse, going over to stand right behind the woman and tries to get her attention. But the woman is listening to the owner. “Of course my place is safe! But it’s only when I know the people who come in here. I don’t know everybody here, and I don’t know you as well. How am I going to know what you’re thinking?”
The man figures it would be better not to butt into the conversation at this point as the woman and owner raise their voices. The man scratches his head. The one waitress that was out on the floor has disappeared, and other people have entered the diner and have seated themselves. The place is almost seating capacity.
So the man decides to leave. The owner sees the man walk away, but instead of seeing it as someone he didn’t help, the owner sees what is in the man’s hand. The woman’s purse. “You see!? There is someone with your purse in hand!” He raises his voice to the man, who is almost out the door, “Stop there! Hold it!”
The owner moves towards the man, but the man doesn’t like the way the owner is talking to him, so he leaves more quickly and smirks at the owner. The owner is taken by surprise. With a disconcerted expression on his face, he looks for the woman to tell her off but also to tell her he’ll call the police. But the woman has already snapped up her coat and quickly follows the man out the door.
The man walked quickly, and he is already half-way down the block. He finally realizes when he’s about to shove his hands in his leather coat’s pockets that he has the purse in hand. The feeling of dread washes over him. He has the urge to drop the purse, but it feels as if it is glued to his hand. The woman comes up yelling for him to stop, but there is no malice behind her yell since she sees the man has stopped and is staring at her.
He asks shakily, “Is this yours?”
“Yes.” She puffs out after running in heels on the rough patches of uneven, split concrete that line the sidewalk. She puts her hand out for the purse, and he quickly gives it to her.
“I really didn’t know what had happened, I heard you talking to the owner, and I tried to get your attention to ask if it was yours. I didn’t realize I had left with it, and that’s why the owner was yelling after me… That makes more sense now…”
The woman smiles and hugs the man. The man now dons a completely bewildered expression on his face. He’s not used to so much interaction in a public place. What seemed normal to him was how the other women at the counter had been staring vapidly ahead while they ate their soup, and the waitress hadn’t even noticed him. Yet then the owner was belligerently yelling first at this woman, and then at him. The man only wanted a simple transaction of getting a cup of soup to go. Not the shot nerves which were making him shake like a leaf, and under low blood sugar too.
The man’s arms are up in the air for his defense in the middle of the woman’s hug, but he finally uses them to push her away. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why you people are crazy enough to be acting out like that. Just leave me alone. You have your purse. Go back to your place and just leave me alone.”
The man turns away from the woman’s dazed expression and walks down the street towards the 7-11 to go get a Campbell’s cup of soup.
The highly-educated woman smiles at the owner and grabs a table that is almost dead center in the middle of the open floor space. The woman does not know the owner well, but she’s been to this diner more than once. Among other things, she likes the open floor plan, the brightly lit atmosphere and the tomato soup.
It is lunch time, and the woman wants to order food before going back to work. She goes up to the counter with her medium to small-sized vinyl purse with a metallic clasp in front. The owner sees her and puts down the dish he was drying. “Hello, how can I help you today?”
“Hi there, I’m thinking I would like a cup of that tomato soup. I’ll take a side salad with it, with French dressing.”
“Would you like anything to drink with that?” The owner asks.
“A cup of coffee and some water would be very nice.”
“Any dessert?”
The woman smiles again. “No thank you, I’ve got to watch the sugar intake while at work. Otherwise, your scones do look lovely.” She gestures with a nod of her head over to the small plastic casing filled with assorted fresh-baked pastry on top of the counter to her right, past the two women sitting on the stools. The women smile back.
“Well then, you should come back after work and treat yourself. Too much work and not enough treats makes for a hard week during such rough times. It’s part of why I reduced their price.”
“That’s part of why I came in. You have extremely affordable rates. It’s definitely appreciated.”
“Thank you. It’s all I can think of to do to keep business going. Business isn’t just about the money for me, it’s about what I can do to make someone’s day a little nicer. I often find I get more out of talking to people than I do with the process of making sure I stay solvent.” He sadly chuckles.
The working woman seems warmed by his comment, and gives him an appreciative smile.
The owner goes back to the cash register at his right and totals the order. “All right. The total is $6.22.”
“Like I said, very reasonable.” The woman unclasps her purse and picks through its meager contents to find her pocketbook. She pulls out three bills from it, one five dollar bill and two one dollar bills. She hands them to the owner over the counter, and he rings open the cash register with a mixture of automated beeps and the metallic ca-junk of the drawer being released into the owners’ gut.
The owner places the bills in each pile of like bills in the drawer, and pulls out three quarters and three pennies. With a smile, the owner then hands the change to the woman and says, “Your order will be out soon.”
The woman smiles back and closes her purse. She turns to go to the table she had marked with setting down her coat across the back of a chair. The spring air was chilly enough even with the bright blazing sun to need a coat when going outside. Yet the woman was quite comfortable inside.
However, once she gets to the table, she is aware of how much she needs to use the lady’s room. She had just drunk an entire twenty-ounced bottle of Aquafina before coming to the diner. So before sitting down, she figures she should have enough time before the food comes to go to the restroom. She sets her purse down on the chair and turns to the direction of the restrooms, in the far left corner of the counter.
Once she comes out of the restroom, the owner comes up to her and says, “Oh, I’m glad you’re still here. I saw your purse laying out and I wondered where you had gone to.”
The woman replies, “I was just in the washroom.”
“As we were saying during the hardness of these times, it’s good to look after one another when things and money are so precious.”
The woman looks at the owner with an air of caution. “I’m a little bit surprised to how concerned you are about me leaving my purse unattended for such a short period of time just because it’s pretty obvious to other people around if someone were to take it.”
“Yes, this is a public place. But I nor anyone else is required to look after other people’s property. I just brought it to your attention out of concern for your property and wellbeing.”
The woman shifts her weight, standing in her high heels that still only bring her up to being six inches shorter than the owner. “Yet there’s no one in here that seems remotely suspicious as to whether or not they would need money enough to steel something in an open public space. I appreciate the sentiment behind your concern, but it’s highly unnecessary.”
As the woman talks to the owner, a man comes into the diner. He is white, thin and wearing a slightly-worn leather coat with well fitting jeans. He looks over at the counter and sees no one there but the short Hispanic cooks near the back. The only waitress he sees is completely across the room talking to already-seated customers. Yet right in front of him is the woman and the owner. The man recognizes the owner as part of the diner when he sees the owner’s paper hat covering the bald spot in the middle of his thick black hair as well as the green order pad and pen sticking out the front right pocket of the owner’s slightly-stained apron.
The man waits behind the woman, who is starting to get a little more annoyed with the owner. “Part of the economic problems we are dealing with is couched in public trust. If I can’t trust that a place like this is safe not just for my purse but for me, then why should I go out at all?”
The man looks to the table with the woman’s coat and purse. He only caught the word “purse” because he was trying to see if one of the cooks would look his way. The man goes over to the table and picks up the purse, going over to stand right behind the woman and tries to get her attention. But the woman is listening to the owner. “Of course my place is safe! But it’s only when I know the people who come in here. I don’t know everybody here, and I don’t know you as well. How am I going to know what you’re thinking?”
The man figures it would be better not to butt into the conversation at this point as the woman and owner raise their voices. The man scratches his head. The one waitress that was out on the floor has disappeared, and other people have entered the diner and have seated themselves. The place is almost seating capacity.
So the man decides to leave. The owner sees the man walk away, but instead of seeing it as someone he didn’t help, the owner sees what is in the man’s hand. The woman’s purse. “You see!? There is someone with your purse in hand!” He raises his voice to the man, who is almost out the door, “Stop there! Hold it!”
The owner moves towards the man, but the man doesn’t like the way the owner is talking to him, so he leaves more quickly and smirks at the owner. The owner is taken by surprise. With a disconcerted expression on his face, he looks for the woman to tell her off but also to tell her he’ll call the police. But the woman has already snapped up her coat and quickly follows the man out the door.
The man walked quickly, and he is already half-way down the block. He finally realizes when he’s about to shove his hands in his leather coat’s pockets that he has the purse in hand. The feeling of dread washes over him. He has the urge to drop the purse, but it feels as if it is glued to his hand. The woman comes up yelling for him to stop, but there is no malice behind her yell since she sees the man has stopped and is staring at her.
He asks shakily, “Is this yours?”
“Yes.” She puffs out after running in heels on the rough patches of uneven, split concrete that line the sidewalk. She puts her hand out for the purse, and he quickly gives it to her.
“I really didn’t know what had happened, I heard you talking to the owner, and I tried to get your attention to ask if it was yours. I didn’t realize I had left with it, and that’s why the owner was yelling after me… That makes more sense now…”
The woman smiles and hugs the man. The man now dons a completely bewildered expression on his face. He’s not used to so much interaction in a public place. What seemed normal to him was how the other women at the counter had been staring vapidly ahead while they ate their soup, and the waitress hadn’t even noticed him. Yet then the owner was belligerently yelling first at this woman, and then at him. The man only wanted a simple transaction of getting a cup of soup to go. Not the shot nerves which were making him shake like a leaf, and under low blood sugar too.
The man’s arms are up in the air for his defense in the middle of the woman’s hug, but he finally uses them to push her away. “I didn’t do anything. I don’t know why you people are crazy enough to be acting out like that. Just leave me alone. You have your purse. Go back to your place and just leave me alone.”
The man turns away from the woman’s dazed expression and walks down the street towards the 7-11 to go get a Campbell’s cup of soup.
The Office Furniture Mythology
(Entries of Record by the Underlings)
Kathy Elrick (contributor)
Disclaimer
about the following entries: This work is a compilation of contributed
observations by the cautious, wide-eyed innocents who have been
shackled to office work because of their breeding to think rather than
to act up in violent retort. While often silent to their supervisors'
mimicked bureaucratic questionnaire that feigns resemblance to a once
human curiosity sparked inquiry, these workers keep track of their
observations which the gnomes (mostly) would rather be kept outside the
notice of human authority.
These incomplete entries concern the
inner workings of office/administrative atmospheres, detailing the
actual, and slightly mythological, context which explains how the old
and superstitious world works in the new mechanized office culture.
Like anything forwarded in a random office FW email, none of this can
be proven. But often rumors of the legitimacy of these instances can
be spotted in the cases of the overworked and underpaid student
assistants and interns. Whether or not such speculation and
superstition should be ignored is up to the reader of these entries.
...
Lipschitz Krawley (Paper shredder in Graduate Studies Office)
the reincarnated Forest Kraken (eater of Colossal Pulp)
Lipschitz
Krawley was a great creature of the forest,originally a mountain-like
creature with cracks of earth for a mouth, who devoured trees for their
possession of tree goblins, nasty hellion creatures who live within the wood.
Lipschitz Krawley has been reincarnated for the same purpose in this
compact box, eating the tree goblins still remaining in paper, now
squished into a 2-dimensional sheet of 8x11, still ready to cause
mischief and fear. Paper cuts mainly. If you listen closely, you will
hear the screams of the goblins as the paper crinkles into the mouth of
the beast, and the appreciative gurgling hum of Lipschitz Krawley’s
satisfaction as the paper disappears into the inner chambers.
-
Flimitz Krawley (Paper shredder in the Registrar)
reincarnated Forest Kraken, cousin to Lipschitz Krawley
The
grinding of it's teeth against the brittle smashed compost of tree
goblin bones. The opening of its chest to find the plastic bag that
has replaced its innards, defiling the lost memory of the greater
intestinal being that was the internal workings of the Krawley clan.
Tying a knot at the top of the bag, you continue to smash down the
goblins who fill it. The hum of the beast as it gnashes apart the
paper-lings reminds you it is still alive, albeit contained besides
you. Flimitz is dependent on you for it's continued quest, the
sentence bequeathed to it by the god that salvaged the rampaging forest
krakens as they died of starvation from the tree goblin's blight and
thinning from modern man, the god known as Zerox, fellow to Janus and
Gemini.
-
Goblin scribes (printers)
Common to most
offices are the magicked Gutenberg boxes which imprint upon the mangled
and pressed carcasses of tree goblins. The products of these boxes
hold properties of many types: stories, laws, the very essence of
human knowledge, binding the tree goblins to their fates as 8x11
mummified artifacts. The magicked boxes are vivified with the electric
air of Mercury, the messenger. It is with these goblin carcasses which
Mercury communicates to the humans about what the divine have decreed,
and the Muses freed from the hearts of men.
-
Bhafari snakes. (Corded Phones)
Chained
to desks these dangerous beings are obsolete connectors to the networks
of the netherwerks, managed by a Medusa-like incarnation of the goddess
Lethe. Dial tones, lost connections, static and oblivion are her area
of expertise. Her office can be found in the void just past the office supply storage closet of Abyss.
-
The absence of mini-fridge gnomes (why the lights went out in the frigid-air territories)
There
is a long story which I am only starting to unravel about the
intermingling world of the gnomes and the office atmosphere. This
particular quick installment looks at the reason for the absence of
lights in the majority if not all mini-fridges to be found in offices,
as compared to these fridges' larger cousins of regular 6" size.
The
suggestion that these fridges are portals to the cold territory of the
gnomes is obvious. No human understands how these portals work
exactly, but there was supposed to be lights in the smaller fridges.
But because of their frequency in areas where there have been clashes
between these gnomes and their previous kinsman, the carpet scrubbing
gnomes (which will be mentioned later) who frequent the more traveled
areas of the office, the mini-fridges became abandon trails which are
supposed to be unwelcoming to the carpet scrubbing gnomes. In this
sense, the cool natures of the fridge gnomes produced a wall to the
friction produced by their former kinsman.
-
Carpet-Scrubber gnomes
These
are the kinsmen of the mini-fridge gnomes. They were former
mini-fridge and large fridge gnomes who were disgruntled with the cold
portals and wished to remain within the usual office atmosphere, thus
willing to clean floors. Both kinds of gnomes are quick to work with
the various forms of water and earth, and can manipulate these office
tools to their advantage. So these gnomes are able to work the carpet
shampooers when no one is asked to shampoo the rugs, or has not done so
in a while. These gnomes are notorious for their spontaneity, as well
as for their mischievous deeds, such as making empty envelopes left in
the lower drawers be glued shut, or making copy paper left on the floor
move to other spots, or become damp.
-
Frederick, the dead carcass of the closet roach
(the memory of infestation, preserved with the gentle lint spun cobwebs and demur dust bunnies)
The battle of the muffin crumb
There
were enough roaches to feed upon the splendor that in reality was more
than a mere crumb, it was a full out mound of muffin that had been
disregarded by accident of its previous claimer. The young roach-let
gangs called in all their kin to join the feast in the coming night of
the closing closet door.
However, one of their kin was unwise,
and went towards the horizon that lay at the edge of night that oversaw
the inner space of the closet world. This roach-let, seeing what lay
outside the cave, gave reason for the large being that might have more
muffins to gasp in horror and outrage. "Shit." Was the last thing
tiny Roceeda heard before being smooshed with a Norton's copy of
Shakespeare Entire Collection. The being spread the dawn of doom to
the community which had gathered first in feast, now scattering in
fear.
Sometime within the week as the mound had been taken away
and the scene had become a perpetual source of fear to the community,
their fears were finally realized that fateful true night. The light
switch outside the closet brought the beginning of the apocalypse for
this community with the man who bore the sign of "Orkin" on his
breast. The community stood their linoleum however, which made the
Orkin man admit the need for back up. This cell phone call was a
battle cry to the roaches, a sure sign of their impending demise of
their communities within the building that the little Frederick as a
young roach-let had come to know and love. With the certainty of a
godlike power imbedded in that canister brought in by the 2nd Orkin
man, the holocaust descended upon and between the crevices where
community staid, ending the lives of dozens which so recently neared a
hundred in so short a time. But Frederick was frozen in this state, as
reminder of time gone
by, the remnant of gourmand appreciation in the midst of the folly of the unwise.
-
Tree Goblin Mausoleums (Filing Cabinets)
Billboards on the file cabinets, displaying the scripture on the tree goblins, their mortuary and simple mausoleum, capitalist style.
-
Tinfoil Toad/Reptile
That
odd looking thing that remains in the tower of frigid air, that palace
of piece-mail meals which remain somehow even when the thoroughest
clean has been done - it's almost as if it is a chameleon that blends
into the thermometer or ice trays, the odd statue that no one wants to
see the core of. Yet it glimmers and grins out at the unsuspecting
passer-bys, having evaded the death of consumption by humans, even if
it is an inner host for mold and other spore creatures.
-
The Small Bird Valets -
They
hold the spots for cars, standing there as markers. They direct
traffic from the curb, hence curbside service. And they know the town;
they can get that "birds-eye view" of the town to get you the best spot
for your purpose. They see you coming, and they will direct you
accordingly. They don't move unless they have to, and they can keep
eye level with the driver, or otherwise they are easily out of sight -
mainly because they have flitted off to the next driver's side.
-
Mercury on the Boulevard
Playing
badminton, confusing the valets. You see Mercury brandishing a racket
and hitting to the wind which catches up the little plastic birdy, but
the birds are not amused and somewhat disgusted. They stand next to
the discarded shuttlecocks, a comparable height, before the steam from
the grates often picks it up and brings it back to the wind for the
next round.
-
Tea Pirates and Plastic Spoon Thieves
These
bandits blend in like the chameleons of the fridge - they are every
where and no where all at once. They are the every worker, they are
the CEO. These thieves are Hobbesean free riders who think that any
odd budget will allow for some wiggle room of a single serving or a
disposable item. Pilfered tea is their horded treasure.
-
The Institutionalized Gateways...
Computers
on the fritz, or computers emitting the sounds of their insanity? It's
hard to tell, but the beeps keep coming from computers that shouldn't
be on, and no one is quite sure which computer its' coming from. It's
hard to tell, but this also could be a terror-tactic coup of the
computers, not merely viruses sent out by some generated computer hack,
but the computers denying their status as slaves to the Man. It's
rumored they have absconded with electronic records from the Second
Wave Women's movement. The beeps continue.
-
The Goblin Boxes of Gore
The
discarded bank boxes in the empty cubicles over near the storage
closet, where only a few people in the department ever pass by, is the
refuge of these stores of old files. These boxes have been moved
around, bashed, taped, and marked dozes of times. No one notices the
way the lids have curled under the heat register, as well as the odd
markings which have been appearing on them, as if the goblin's cousins
have taken over the corpses of cardboard for the sake of making a
message. Red marks which appear to be nothing more than Sharpie run
off looks as if it had dripped down the side of a few of the boxes, the
mechanical blood of the possibly repossessed unattended stacks. Also,
these boxes seem to be multiplying without the notice of any of the
workers, spreading to portions of the cubicles under the desks, trying
to take root and regrow in their more natural form. The water pipes
aren't too far off...
-
Late Office Hours
The air
from the heat registers numbs the feet, making it impossible to move
from the desk. The odd personality quirks burrow deeper into the
workaholic mindset of the people remaining, creating hallucinations of
paranoia in each ledger entry made, the tri-mark of Hypnos, Manea and Kronos. The dark atmosphere
outside creates a false sense of security in the glow of the florescent
lighting, while the fairies and gnomes start their conversations with
the spirits of the tree goblins. Flashing lights on the phones of
abandon cubicles are like the sounds of trees falling in the forest
with no one around...
Kathy Elrick (contributor)
Disclaimer
about the following entries: This work is a compilation of contributed
observations by the cautious, wide-eyed innocents who have been
shackled to office work because of their breeding to think rather than
to act up in violent retort. While often silent to their supervisors'
mimicked bureaucratic questionnaire that feigns resemblance to a once
human curiosity sparked inquiry, these workers keep track of their
observations which the gnomes (mostly) would rather be kept outside the
notice of human authority.
These incomplete entries concern the
inner workings of office/administrative atmospheres, detailing the
actual, and slightly mythological, context which explains how the old
and superstitious world works in the new mechanized office culture.
Like anything forwarded in a random office FW email, none of this can
be proven. But often rumors of the legitimacy of these instances can
be spotted in the cases of the overworked and underpaid student
assistants and interns. Whether or not such speculation and
superstition should be ignored is up to the reader of these entries.
...
Lipschitz Krawley (Paper shredder in Graduate Studies Office)
the reincarnated Forest Kraken (eater of Colossal Pulp)
Lipschitz
Krawley was a great creature of the forest,originally a mountain-like
creature with cracks of earth for a mouth, who devoured trees for their
possession of tree goblins, nasty hellion creatures who live within the wood.
Lipschitz Krawley has been reincarnated for the same purpose in this
compact box, eating the tree goblins still remaining in paper, now
squished into a 2-dimensional sheet of 8x11, still ready to cause
mischief and fear. Paper cuts mainly. If you listen closely, you will
hear the screams of the goblins as the paper crinkles into the mouth of
the beast, and the appreciative gurgling hum of Lipschitz Krawley’s
satisfaction as the paper disappears into the inner chambers.
-
Flimitz Krawley (Paper shredder in the Registrar)
reincarnated Forest Kraken, cousin to Lipschitz Krawley
The
grinding of it's teeth against the brittle smashed compost of tree
goblin bones. The opening of its chest to find the plastic bag that
has replaced its innards, defiling the lost memory of the greater
intestinal being that was the internal workings of the Krawley clan.
Tying a knot at the top of the bag, you continue to smash down the
goblins who fill it. The hum of the beast as it gnashes apart the
paper-lings reminds you it is still alive, albeit contained besides
you. Flimitz is dependent on you for it's continued quest, the
sentence bequeathed to it by the god that salvaged the rampaging forest
krakens as they died of starvation from the tree goblin's blight and
thinning from modern man, the god known as Zerox, fellow to Janus and
Gemini.
-
Goblin scribes (printers)
Common to most
offices are the magicked Gutenberg boxes which imprint upon the mangled
and pressed carcasses of tree goblins. The products of these boxes
hold properties of many types: stories, laws, the very essence of
human knowledge, binding the tree goblins to their fates as 8x11
mummified artifacts. The magicked boxes are vivified with the electric
air of Mercury, the messenger. It is with these goblin carcasses which
Mercury communicates to the humans about what the divine have decreed,
and the Muses freed from the hearts of men.
-
Bhafari snakes. (Corded Phones)
Chained
to desks these dangerous beings are obsolete connectors to the networks
of the netherwerks, managed by a Medusa-like incarnation of the goddess
Lethe. Dial tones, lost connections, static and oblivion are her area
of expertise. Her office can be found in the void just past the office supply storage closet of Abyss.
-
The absence of mini-fridge gnomes (why the lights went out in the frigid-air territories)
There
is a long story which I am only starting to unravel about the
intermingling world of the gnomes and the office atmosphere. This
particular quick installment looks at the reason for the absence of
lights in the majority if not all mini-fridges to be found in offices,
as compared to these fridges' larger cousins of regular 6" size.
The
suggestion that these fridges are portals to the cold territory of the
gnomes is obvious. No human understands how these portals work
exactly, but there was supposed to be lights in the smaller fridges.
But because of their frequency in areas where there have been clashes
between these gnomes and their previous kinsman, the carpet scrubbing
gnomes (which will be mentioned later) who frequent the more traveled
areas of the office, the mini-fridges became abandon trails which are
supposed to be unwelcoming to the carpet scrubbing gnomes. In this
sense, the cool natures of the fridge gnomes produced a wall to the
friction produced by their former kinsman.
-
Carpet-Scrubber gnomes
These
are the kinsmen of the mini-fridge gnomes. They were former
mini-fridge and large fridge gnomes who were disgruntled with the cold
portals and wished to remain within the usual office atmosphere, thus
willing to clean floors. Both kinds of gnomes are quick to work with
the various forms of water and earth, and can manipulate these office
tools to their advantage. So these gnomes are able to work the carpet
shampooers when no one is asked to shampoo the rugs, or has not done so
in a while. These gnomes are notorious for their spontaneity, as well
as for their mischievous deeds, such as making empty envelopes left in
the lower drawers be glued shut, or making copy paper left on the floor
move to other spots, or become damp.
-
Frederick, the dead carcass of the closet roach
(the memory of infestation, preserved with the gentle lint spun cobwebs and demur dust bunnies)
The battle of the muffin crumb
There
were enough roaches to feed upon the splendor that in reality was more
than a mere crumb, it was a full out mound of muffin that had been
disregarded by accident of its previous claimer. The young roach-let
gangs called in all their kin to join the feast in the coming night of
the closing closet door.
However, one of their kin was unwise,
and went towards the horizon that lay at the edge of night that oversaw
the inner space of the closet world. This roach-let, seeing what lay
outside the cave, gave reason for the large being that might have more
muffins to gasp in horror and outrage. "Shit." Was the last thing
tiny Roceeda heard before being smooshed with a Norton's copy of
Shakespeare Entire Collection. The being spread the dawn of doom to
the community which had gathered first in feast, now scattering in
fear.
Sometime within the week as the mound had been taken away
and the scene had become a perpetual source of fear to the community,
their fears were finally realized that fateful true night. The light
switch outside the closet brought the beginning of the apocalypse for
this community with the man who bore the sign of "Orkin" on his
breast. The community stood their linoleum however, which made the
Orkin man admit the need for back up. This cell phone call was a
battle cry to the roaches, a sure sign of their impending demise of
their communities within the building that the little Frederick as a
young roach-let had come to know and love. With the certainty of a
godlike power imbedded in that canister brought in by the 2nd Orkin
man, the holocaust descended upon and between the crevices where
community staid, ending the lives of dozens which so recently neared a
hundred in so short a time. But Frederick was frozen in this state, as
reminder of time gone
by, the remnant of gourmand appreciation in the midst of the folly of the unwise.
-
Tree Goblin Mausoleums (Filing Cabinets)
Billboards on the file cabinets, displaying the scripture on the tree goblins, their mortuary and simple mausoleum, capitalist style.
-
Tinfoil Toad/Reptile
That
odd looking thing that remains in the tower of frigid air, that palace
of piece-mail meals which remain somehow even when the thoroughest
clean has been done - it's almost as if it is a chameleon that blends
into the thermometer or ice trays, the odd statue that no one wants to
see the core of. Yet it glimmers and grins out at the unsuspecting
passer-bys, having evaded the death of consumption by humans, even if
it is an inner host for mold and other spore creatures.
-
The Small Bird Valets -
They
hold the spots for cars, standing there as markers. They direct
traffic from the curb, hence curbside service. And they know the town;
they can get that "birds-eye view" of the town to get you the best spot
for your purpose. They see you coming, and they will direct you
accordingly. They don't move unless they have to, and they can keep
eye level with the driver, or otherwise they are easily out of sight -
mainly because they have flitted off to the next driver's side.
-
Mercury on the Boulevard
Playing
badminton, confusing the valets. You see Mercury brandishing a racket
and hitting to the wind which catches up the little plastic birdy, but
the birds are not amused and somewhat disgusted. They stand next to
the discarded shuttlecocks, a comparable height, before the steam from
the grates often picks it up and brings it back to the wind for the
next round.
-
Tea Pirates and Plastic Spoon Thieves
These
bandits blend in like the chameleons of the fridge - they are every
where and no where all at once. They are the every worker, they are
the CEO. These thieves are Hobbesean free riders who think that any
odd budget will allow for some wiggle room of a single serving or a
disposable item. Pilfered tea is their horded treasure.
-
The Institutionalized Gateways...
Computers
on the fritz, or computers emitting the sounds of their insanity? It's
hard to tell, but the beeps keep coming from computers that shouldn't
be on, and no one is quite sure which computer its' coming from. It's
hard to tell, but this also could be a terror-tactic coup of the
computers, not merely viruses sent out by some generated computer hack,
but the computers denying their status as slaves to the Man. It's
rumored they have absconded with electronic records from the Second
Wave Women's movement. The beeps continue.
-
The Goblin Boxes of Gore
The
discarded bank boxes in the empty cubicles over near the storage
closet, where only a few people in the department ever pass by, is the
refuge of these stores of old files. These boxes have been moved
around, bashed, taped, and marked dozes of times. No one notices the
way the lids have curled under the heat register, as well as the odd
markings which have been appearing on them, as if the goblin's cousins
have taken over the corpses of cardboard for the sake of making a
message. Red marks which appear to be nothing more than Sharpie run
off looks as if it had dripped down the side of a few of the boxes, the
mechanical blood of the possibly repossessed unattended stacks. Also,
these boxes seem to be multiplying without the notice of any of the
workers, spreading to portions of the cubicles under the desks, trying
to take root and regrow in their more natural form. The water pipes
aren't too far off...
-
Late Office Hours
The air
from the heat registers numbs the feet, making it impossible to move
from the desk. The odd personality quirks burrow deeper into the
workaholic mindset of the people remaining, creating hallucinations of
paranoia in each ledger entry made, the tri-mark of Hypnos, Manea and Kronos. The dark atmosphere
outside creates a false sense of security in the glow of the florescent
lighting, while the fairies and gnomes start their conversations with
the spirits of the tree goblins. Flashing lights on the phones of
abandon cubicles are like the sounds of trees falling in the forest
with no one around...
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Work in Progress: Black Coffee.
"black coffee."
Please don't ask it. I know you're going to ask it, but please, don't. "You sure you don't want cream?" At least she didn't just ask if I wanted cream.
The slight alteration puts her as new, but not in-experienced. She did look up when she was writing down something on her pad, that I really hope wasn't the inversion of my very simple order, "coffee, black." I really don't care, but I figure I'll at least answer her, since she is staying for an answer rather than a person who seems like she would be waived off. She's not a speedy person, but she's not dumb.
"No, thank you." I continue to look at my mug, half asleep myself. It's only 6am. I don't do 6am.
She smiles that white Protestant morning smile that's not cheesy, but not quite awake. She wears it better than the cheap looking pink cardigan that all the waitresses wear, regardless of whether you're white, black or latina. I never see Asian waitresses, or men in general out on the floor. The only men are the Hispanics cooking in the back, grunting out their rapid fire Spanish to the whoosh of the hot flames in front of them on the grill. It's only 6am, and they already look like they've sweat off a layer of skin.
I go back to staring listlessly. I turn my attention to the porcelain sugar packet box in front of me. There's a slight lip to it, jutting petitely outward. It makes me think of the cousin to a common soap dish, like one I saw at this old lady's house, I think it was the aunt of a friend. I don't know why I remember that, but I pick up the small sugar china. I guess the only Asians come in pre-fab form here. I look at the underside and see it is indeed from China. Although, I would think so is the ink on the sugar packets. Laced with lead... Or so the TV tells me. They don't have TV in here, thank God. That's why I came here to get my coffee. Nothing but the coffee. Black.
The waitress comes back, parallel to me behind the counter. A safe place, and she's armed with the over-used coffee pot. The lines that used to measure amounts or have directions or whatnot are warn off, but still match the obtuse orange of the plastic spout. She keeps a placid smile on her face, possibly because I'm not rowdy, and I'm not demanding. Or possibly because she thinks I'm pleasant looking. I watch the vapors of the scalding hot coffee rise in front of the reflection of my face in the mirror. A shaven, dark-and-slightly-long haired, white man stares back at me, not unpleasant.
The fact I was shaven was thanks to their bathroom, here at the diner. I came from a night out with women who thought I was exceptionally pleasant, and I reciprocated the kindness. I'm still wearing my nice button-up, going-out shirt that doesn't fit the work-place I'll be heading to after this. I have a change of shirt in the trunk of the rental car. I'm visiting the Loop office, but I've been here before. To this diner even. This is the first time I've seen this waitress. And it will probably be the last.
She comes back after taking the order of another man down the counter from me. "You know what you want? Or do you need another minute to look at the menu?" She asks me, a little more lively now. The man must have cajoled her a little. I just look up, too tired to give her the same.
The menu she's referring to contains all the breakfast items known to a good middle American diner. Yes, Chicago, but still not quite in the city, a small place outside of O'Hare. I'm originally from the Suburbs, but I live out East now. I never knew Chicago this well until I left it. I don't really want breakfast, but I say, "Yeah, just give me a minute. I'll take some more coffee though." I try for a half smile in my still half-asleep mode. She doesn't even double-take the speed at which I gulped down the first cup before she pours me a second.
"Sure thing. Just let me know when you're ready." She says, and gives me a vamped up version of her first pleasant smile. I think that was supposed to be a flirt. I take a sip to let it register. Yeah, this will be my last time here. Not because of her.
It's Sam. The buddy of mine that used to be a part of the company out East, but then moved for the company's section out here, but he's leaving them too. This time it's for academia. He finally found a teaching job. Cheap, but supposedly what he wants to do. He'd always be talking about how much he loved politics and teaching civics lessons to kids, college aged. He didn't mind the Idol-worshipers he had in class, he said they're the reason he's going back. The righteous fuck. I don't get it, they're less motivated than the interns we get for our company. At least the company puts some fear into these kids to get them out of their consumer-addicted mentality to realizing they aren't going to make shit until they're at least my age with the minimal ambitions they have. They need to get some ambition, you can't just buy it with the money you get from a part-time job. It's the hell that the part-time job puts you through to earn it. I look down into my empty mug.
Her name's Darlene, the waitress behind the counter. Thank God there's a counter between us, something to lean on while I try to get a grip on being back in town.
--
I had a wish to make my life more than it was. Has been. yeah, that's me, not a has been, but I have been. What does that even mean? In a time frame. That's it, life is supposed to pass you by on this linear, continual moment. Perpetual. You try and out run it, but it catches up to you, like Alice in Wonderland, the second time round. You run so fast and never get anywhere, but then when you stand still, you're continually moving. It's an entire mode of being, this pace. It's not time, it's a speed. The acceleration of this time isn't really time, it's a measurement of being. We think that time is all knowing, that it watches us, it designates our lives, like Mussolini, making the trains run on time. But instead we are run by our own desires, our own thoughts, our own whims. I take a sip of coffee.
What if we don't have to play by time? What if instead play by our desires, make time irrelevant, and instead just take the opportunities whenever they come - I know, people talking about timing in that. Kairos, in the Greeks. It was the moment that all things came together a certain way, balanced. But it wasn't just time, it was momentum, it was situational, it was prioritized by what you were looking for. The topic, the common ground. A plateau even. This place where you deal your deed, you do your thing, you have your moment of Zen - you get it all - all the information that was ever relevant came to you on this table-top, this chess board, this space of being -
I'm left with the momentary image of the importance of that moment of epiphany over my egg white omlette, the dawn that had been so brilliant out the window just a moment ago fading into a gray morning. It's 7:30. Time to work.
Please don't ask it. I know you're going to ask it, but please, don't. "You sure you don't want cream?" At least she didn't just ask if I wanted cream.
The slight alteration puts her as new, but not in-experienced. She did look up when she was writing down something on her pad, that I really hope wasn't the inversion of my very simple order, "coffee, black." I really don't care, but I figure I'll at least answer her, since she is staying for an answer rather than a person who seems like she would be waived off. She's not a speedy person, but she's not dumb.
"No, thank you." I continue to look at my mug, half asleep myself. It's only 6am. I don't do 6am.
She smiles that white Protestant morning smile that's not cheesy, but not quite awake. She wears it better than the cheap looking pink cardigan that all the waitresses wear, regardless of whether you're white, black or latina. I never see Asian waitresses, or men in general out on the floor. The only men are the Hispanics cooking in the back, grunting out their rapid fire Spanish to the whoosh of the hot flames in front of them on the grill. It's only 6am, and they already look like they've sweat off a layer of skin.
I go back to staring listlessly. I turn my attention to the porcelain sugar packet box in front of me. There's a slight lip to it, jutting petitely outward. It makes me think of the cousin to a common soap dish, like one I saw at this old lady's house, I think it was the aunt of a friend. I don't know why I remember that, but I pick up the small sugar china. I guess the only Asians come in pre-fab form here. I look at the underside and see it is indeed from China. Although, I would think so is the ink on the sugar packets. Laced with lead... Or so the TV tells me. They don't have TV in here, thank God. That's why I came here to get my coffee. Nothing but the coffee. Black.
The waitress comes back, parallel to me behind the counter. A safe place, and she's armed with the over-used coffee pot. The lines that used to measure amounts or have directions or whatnot are warn off, but still match the obtuse orange of the plastic spout. She keeps a placid smile on her face, possibly because I'm not rowdy, and I'm not demanding. Or possibly because she thinks I'm pleasant looking. I watch the vapors of the scalding hot coffee rise in front of the reflection of my face in the mirror. A shaven, dark-and-slightly-long haired, white man stares back at me, not unpleasant.
The fact I was shaven was thanks to their bathroom, here at the diner. I came from a night out with women who thought I was exceptionally pleasant, and I reciprocated the kindness. I'm still wearing my nice button-up, going-out shirt that doesn't fit the work-place I'll be heading to after this. I have a change of shirt in the trunk of the rental car. I'm visiting the Loop office, but I've been here before. To this diner even. This is the first time I've seen this waitress. And it will probably be the last.
She comes back after taking the order of another man down the counter from me. "You know what you want? Or do you need another minute to look at the menu?" She asks me, a little more lively now. The man must have cajoled her a little. I just look up, too tired to give her the same.
The menu she's referring to contains all the breakfast items known to a good middle American diner. Yes, Chicago, but still not quite in the city, a small place outside of O'Hare. I'm originally from the Suburbs, but I live out East now. I never knew Chicago this well until I left it. I don't really want breakfast, but I say, "Yeah, just give me a minute. I'll take some more coffee though." I try for a half smile in my still half-asleep mode. She doesn't even double-take the speed at which I gulped down the first cup before she pours me a second.
"Sure thing. Just let me know when you're ready." She says, and gives me a vamped up version of her first pleasant smile. I think that was supposed to be a flirt. I take a sip to let it register. Yeah, this will be my last time here. Not because of her.
It's Sam. The buddy of mine that used to be a part of the company out East, but then moved for the company's section out here, but he's leaving them too. This time it's for academia. He finally found a teaching job. Cheap, but supposedly what he wants to do. He'd always be talking about how much he loved politics and teaching civics lessons to kids, college aged. He didn't mind the Idol-worshipers he had in class, he said they're the reason he's going back. The righteous fuck. I don't get it, they're less motivated than the interns we get for our company. At least the company puts some fear into these kids to get them out of their consumer-addicted mentality to realizing they aren't going to make shit until they're at least my age with the minimal ambitions they have. They need to get some ambition, you can't just buy it with the money you get from a part-time job. It's the hell that the part-time job puts you through to earn it. I look down into my empty mug.
Her name's Darlene, the waitress behind the counter. Thank God there's a counter between us, something to lean on while I try to get a grip on being back in town.
--
I had a wish to make my life more than it was. Has been. yeah, that's me, not a has been, but I have been. What does that even mean? In a time frame. That's it, life is supposed to pass you by on this linear, continual moment. Perpetual. You try and out run it, but it catches up to you, like Alice in Wonderland, the second time round. You run so fast and never get anywhere, but then when you stand still, you're continually moving. It's an entire mode of being, this pace. It's not time, it's a speed. The acceleration of this time isn't really time, it's a measurement of being. We think that time is all knowing, that it watches us, it designates our lives, like Mussolini, making the trains run on time. But instead we are run by our own desires, our own thoughts, our own whims. I take a sip of coffee.
What if we don't have to play by time? What if instead play by our desires, make time irrelevant, and instead just take the opportunities whenever they come - I know, people talking about timing in that. Kairos, in the Greeks. It was the moment that all things came together a certain way, balanced. But it wasn't just time, it was momentum, it was situational, it was prioritized by what you were looking for. The topic, the common ground. A plateau even. This place where you deal your deed, you do your thing, you have your moment of Zen - you get it all - all the information that was ever relevant came to you on this table-top, this chess board, this space of being -
I'm left with the momentary image of the importance of that moment of epiphany over my egg white omlette, the dawn that had been so brilliant out the window just a moment ago fading into a gray morning. It's 7:30. Time to work.
The Simply Sweet Absurd
(Munch, munch, munch.)
I hate my life. (Munch.)
I can't stand my job. (Crunch.)
I hate that I can't stop eating. (Aomm. Munch, crunch, munch.)
I feel unable to do anything that would give me pleasure.(Oo, a big chocolate covered nut. Numm.)
I am powerless to change anything for myself or to help people. (Smack the lips.)
I don't know what to do with my life, but sit here and eat at my desk at work. (Yummy.)
Could I change? (Inhaling a breath, pausing mid-crunch.)
What would I change and what would I change to? (Takes hand out of bag of choco-snax to put a artificially sweet finger on the chin.)
I guess I could encourage others not to eat so much, and maybe talk about why we hate our jobs.
(looks down at the bag.)
Nah, I do that anyway. How is that different than any other day? (shoves a hand in the bag and takes out a palm full of snax.)
I hate my life. (Munch.)
I can't stand my job. (Crunch.)
I hate that I can't stop eating. (Aomm. Munch, crunch, munch.)
I feel unable to do anything that would give me pleasure.(Oo, a big chocolate covered nut. Numm.)
I am powerless to change anything for myself or to help people. (Smack the lips.)
I don't know what to do with my life, but sit here and eat at my desk at work. (Yummy.)
Could I change? (Inhaling a breath, pausing mid-crunch.)
What would I change and what would I change to? (Takes hand out of bag of choco-snax to put a artificially sweet finger on the chin.)
I guess I could encourage others not to eat so much, and maybe talk about why we hate our jobs.
(looks down at the bag.)
Nah, I do that anyway. How is that different than any other day? (shoves a hand in the bag and takes out a palm full of snax.)
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