rattled this morning, set coffee cup on top of car while lifting floyd up and in. drove to work in grey funk. pulled into parking lot, killed engine, and suddenly remembered coffee. got out, and voila, cup on its side, trapped by luggage rack– with still a couple of sips of (now iced) coffee inside!
That’s how we roll
FML
so it’s one of those mornings: overcast, dragging– I chew my way resignedly through a bowl of cereal because it is required, do the utmost minimum in the way of morning toilette and wardrobe, again simply because it is required– grit psychic teeth and fight myself every inch of the way to get to and give up my day to the place of work because I must. on the way in I decide, as unhappiness compensation, to treat myself to delicious $4 coffee beverage from the place located conveniently right near the workplace, suffer through the gratingly insistent jollity of the barrista (barristo?), sigh contentedly as I settle back into the relative peace of my car seat and savor the first sweet sip– then have a single gulp more while driving the final yards, pull in, kill the engine, undo seat belt and open car door, lever myself up and out with coffee in hand– and watch in slow motion dismay as the cup splats open against the parking lot pavement and glugs its contents in a chocolately pool across the tarmac and under my car.
due diligence
the deal is 200 words a day, at minimum, regardless of mood or weather. doesn’t matter if you walk in the door with nose dripping and right eardrum throbbing. forget about losing the street parking skirmish for the evening, ceding that spot, though you didn’t have to, to the guy who’d turned in that driveway just before you pulled up, who reversed and filled up tight on your tail flashing his brights as testament to prior claim– you could have ignored him, did for 10 or 15 seconds, aching ear, 20 degree weather and all, but then you thought about the roles reversed, muttered fuckit and pulled out, parking finally blocks away, grumbling the way home all hunched against the wind. doesn’t matter if you’re working for less than you think you should doing work with little meaning or appeal most days– you focus on keeping afloat, fending off the big questions, tasting moments, floes of grace in the grey expanse– you work, as they say, for the weekend, for the delectable companionship of off-hours with the warm soul who lies beside you in bed at night. you disregard the wind that rattles the window frames. you look for a light, even in your sleep– tell yourself to see it, that you’re the only one to rub the sticks together or strike flint. notes from the universe keep saying to raise the bar, startle yourself, try something new. you try. dreams are full of sinister families, strangers who stand too close, convoluted apartment building layouts. the checkerboard of windows across the way houses an unfathomable array of lives– the city baffles and overwhelms. you begin to feel old, without marks in the ground to show your progress. the big questions are unavoidable for long– unless you stay away from the page, fill your head with busy replaceable noise– but still they hover outside, whispering to be answered, or at least addressed.