Wednesday, April 07, 2004
I don't have room for clutter in my life. There is just too much stuff all around. I love shopping as much as, if not more than, the next woman. But, where they collect, I replace and update. "Out with the old and in with the new!" New acquisitions give me an excuse to dispose of the extra, the superfluous, the substitutions for what I really want. I have learned not to hold too tightly to anything. Loss is expected, it is a part of everything. Look at nature -, always from birth, to growth, to death: loss. Or life - birth, growth, independence, dependence, then death: loss. Love - birth, growth, death: loss. Push me, and I give, I am yielding. It is the natural cycle. Resistance is futile. I can always start over again.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
(March 2, 2004)
There is always a sound of air blowing somewhere. I sit at my desk, and I hear it overhead. Oxygen and temperature control. Sounds, I hear so many sounds. This morning, standing at the sink: water rushing through the pipes, the stool sliding across the tiled floor, and a high pitched electronic buzz nearby. My shoes in a sharp staccato on the wood floor, muffling on the pavement as I go to open my car door. The engine turning and grating, it starts, then that obnoxious loose belt starts it’s ringing, squealing complaining. I turn up the volume on the car stereo, and the thumping bass makes my butt vibrate. Thinking of that asshole the other night, rushing me to turn right on red, his car horn honking repeatedly. I raised my arm and let my finger shout back at him.
Walking the fire escape stairs to floor 19, my rings tapping on the metal railing. I hum as I walk, good acoustics in here. Another mumbled “hello” from the secretary that sits there. She’s already seen me many times today. The heels on my shoes announce my presence in the hall. The voices I overhear as I pass each room are very rarely worth listening to. Somewhere a phone rings. I want to go sit in the stairwell and sing.
There is always a sound of air blowing somewhere. I sit at my desk, and I hear it overhead. Oxygen and temperature control. Sounds, I hear so many sounds. This morning, standing at the sink: water rushing through the pipes, the stool sliding across the tiled floor, and a high pitched electronic buzz nearby. My shoes in a sharp staccato on the wood floor, muffling on the pavement as I go to open my car door. The engine turning and grating, it starts, then that obnoxious loose belt starts it’s ringing, squealing complaining. I turn up the volume on the car stereo, and the thumping bass makes my butt vibrate. Thinking of that asshole the other night, rushing me to turn right on red, his car horn honking repeatedly. I raised my arm and let my finger shout back at him.
Walking the fire escape stairs to floor 19, my rings tapping on the metal railing. I hum as I walk, good acoustics in here. Another mumbled “hello” from the secretary that sits there. She’s already seen me many times today. The heels on my shoes announce my presence in the hall. The voices I overhear as I pass each room are very rarely worth listening to. Somewhere a phone rings. I want to go sit in the stairwell and sing.
Monday, April 05, 2004
the office
They say to take time, to stop and smell the roses. In this office there are plenty of roses. Beautiful and hothouse grown, they smell only of slightly sweet, dry office air. Dry and almost state...
Stale. I have grown stale. My outlook has grown stale. I am tired of stale... The loss of life... My life is stale... The sympathies once offered me have grown stale. The constant anger leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It is in the air and makes everything taste stale. Even this persistent mummer of discontent I feel is stale. And by now this complaint is certainly...
Stale. I have grown stale. My outlook has grown stale. I am tired of stale... The loss of life... My life is stale... The sympathies once offered me have grown stale. The constant anger leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. It is in the air and makes everything taste stale. Even this persistent mummer of discontent I feel is stale. And by now this complaint is certainly...
