I feel like a fish.
Gills inflated with the density of "real" life and the abhorrence of that which many call breath of life,
my fins guiding me toward something entirely different, something subterranean and unearthy--I am not in my element, here.
My brother says everyone writes memoirs these days. I think it kind of disgusts him in hard copy form, but electronic is completely different. Not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with newness. Personal histories and journals are not that novel (excuse the pun), but online, for the masses, for free, that's something different. The revolution begins here, in the chaordic shapeless and unbound, the place of freedom -- freedom.
I process official stuff for a living -- that's not novel. But the means by which I told you would have baffled even the most ingenious less than half a lifetime ago.
Here's to the next 25 years.
The place where the everyday crossings of life meet the undercurrent of the urban subconscious.
Saturday, August 24, 2002
Friday, August 23, 2002
It's 9:27 PM on Friday night and I'm actually ticked off that I can't be at work right now.
Now that's messed up.
The campus is overrun by Freshmen and their parents, the banes of my existence, at least for about a week. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just jumped in the car and drove until I didn't have any gas left, then walked as far as I could go before dropping.
And back at my office, the phone would ring and ring and ring. The applications wouldn't be processed. No appointments would be taken. My plant would wither, my keyboard would gather dust. Eventually they'd move someone else in, but how soon?
But no, I am shackled by duty and a sleeping economy.
So it's Friday night and I'm actually bothered that I can't be in my office.
Now that's messed up.
The campus is overrun by Freshmen and their parents, the banes of my existence, at least for about a week. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I just jumped in the car and drove until I didn't have any gas left, then walked as far as I could go before dropping.
And back at my office, the phone would ring and ring and ring. The applications wouldn't be processed. No appointments would be taken. My plant would wither, my keyboard would gather dust. Eventually they'd move someone else in, but how soon?
But no, I am shackled by duty and a sleeping economy.
So it's Friday night and I'm actually bothered that I can't be in my office.
Thursday, August 22, 2002
Another day. You know, it all existed before this was up, but somehow reality fades when unpublished, tomorrow, today, yesterday, last week, last year. Sometimes it feels like you're writing a book and tearing out pages as you go.
It's 5:42AM and work is looming before me, shaking its tentacled head and winking a malevolent eye -- come on, you've got to dramatize. That's the only thing that's given this race hope throughout history.
Or is it just a response to something that we all know, subconsciously, is going on, something that is really more dramatic than we can imagine?
It's 5:42AM and work is looming before me, shaking its tentacled head and winking a malevolent eye -- come on, you've got to dramatize. That's the only thing that's given this race hope throughout history.
Or is it just a response to something that we all know, subconsciously, is going on, something that is really more dramatic than we can imagine?
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