Prattling On And Stevens
Today was kind of frightful. At least it feels frightful, but not in a really bad way, if that makes sense. Firstly, I slept in. I didn’t sleep in by much, but it was enough that I had to bolt out of bed instead of leisurely rousing myself out of unconsciousness and had to skip washing my hair in the shower. I was just starting the whole keeping-myself-clean path to mental clarity, too. I tripped in the living room, melted part of a shirt with an iron that was unreasonably hot, drank water with a bug floating in it (by accident), forgot my deodorant, found one of those deep and unpoppable zits inside my right ear, and then forgot to take both my breakfast and lunch to work with me.
It was a kickass start to my Tuesday.
Still, I was in a fairly good mood. I had a lot of work piled up to look forward to, which I actually like, because staying busy at work makes me a happy girl. At least, it usually does. A letter to a bereaved wife that I spent a goodly amount of time labouring over yesterday afternoon was proofed by one of my superiors, who crossed off the whole letter she’d asked me to write and had written up a new one on the back. She has a relationship with this wife person, so I understand her wanting to write the letter, but then why did I have to spend so much time on it in the first place?! I had papers piling up more and more through out the day, and no matter how hard I pushed myself to shuffle them through the process, more kept getting dropped into my inbox. I had to skip both my breaks and my lunch just to find myself with a slightly less daunting pile of paper to push at the end of the day.
While I was doing all this paper-pushing, I managed to papercut a finger, my nose, and the underside of my chin. I stabbed a staple through my left thumb. I ran over my own toe with a wheel on my own office chair. I don’t know if I could orchestrate that one believably again if I tried. I ate too much envelope glue, because I kept forgetting about the handy water pad that I have expressly for that purpose.
Still, for some reason I kind of liked today. I got a ton of things done, and I survived my minor cuts and bumps with aplomb. When the bus was really late, I took that as an opportunity to enjoy the unseasonably warm sunshine and listen to a student sing all pretty on the other side of a pine tree. I even rode the bus for an extra five stops just so I could walk through the day a little more.
I am starting to think that the increased dosage of St. John’s Wort that I’m taking is kicking in. Or that the telephone call I received from the Fiery One this afternoon had some fabulous side effects.
Now that I am done prattling on about my injuries, work, and feeling less despairing, a poem!
I have been falling in and out of love with poetry since I began reading, and just lately I fell back in. First it was Milosz. Then it was Holub. Then it was Carson and Plath and Whitman. Ginsberg jumped in there for a bit. So, you’ll have to forgive me if you are not the wordy sort. I can’t help myself. Good writing makes me bigger, it inflates me. That is how it is. Now for today’s poem:
That’s it. I’m off to be an elevator operator on construction sites in Australia.
Tour a history of pop-up and moveable books. (Stuff actually moves).
War by Manuel Fallman. I don’t understand what he’s singing, but I like it.