I’m supposed to be getting ready for work. I don’t want to. You can't make me.
What I am doing is looking at some great new blogs. They are linked on my site. Bad Guitar and Haiku Ambulance.
I am thinking how sad it is that I can’t figure out how to get paid to sit home naked, or in my red robe on chilly days, and swing in my hammock listening to white-throated sparrows, juncos and goldfinches trilling, chirping and per-chick-a reeing away all morning. Or reading. Me, not the birds (but who knows what they do in the privacy of their own branches.)
Or making arty things or napping.
But I can’t figure out how to get paid to do those things and so I will haul myself out of this 1940s swivel, desk chair for which I paid 7 dollars and get dressed. And go to work. And listen to stories about 2 month old babies being literally snatched out of mother’s arms and are now being held hostage; being strangled and waking up in the ER; or raped unconcious by your own boyfriend and how the DA can’t win the cases or it’s not against the law anyway.
I will think about and mime, several times during the day, shoving a pencil into my left temple until it comes out the other side. I will not do it. I will go home and eat ice cream for dinner and wonder why I am over weight.
I will think about developing heathier coping strategies. I will wish I’d written “If I had a Rocket Launcher” but be glad that Bruce Cockburn did.
Someone had to.
4 comments:
Crow! Crow!
Morning is not broken.
Heart is broken,
spirit broken, maybe.
Morning is not broken.
Take refuge there,
as you know how to do.
I'm assuming there isn't a line on your resume that reads "Looking for fun work."
I admire your spirit and commitment. Your line of work ain't for sissies. And you ain't one. Coincidence? (<:
Lee
hang in there. you're fighting the good fight. at least what you do has meaning beyond the machinations of the economy. and, like the man said...
i want to raise every voice,
at least I've got to try.
every time I think about it,
water rises to my eyes.
situation desperate,
echoes of the victims cry.
if I had a rocket launcher...
some son of a bitch would die.
Thanks all for your comments and concerns.
I assure you, I am OK. The words were a snapshot in time. A truth telling inspired by a post I read on Haiku Ambulance. It was refreshingly honest and I felt like being honest for a few moments, also.
The graphic content of shoving a pencil...(pencil pushing: get it?) is the kind of dark, black, whacked humor we use everyday for coping. And the broken morning reference was to a Cat Stevens song. I thought the irony obvious. Oh, well.
Be more concerned if you don't hear from me for weeks on end and I didn't report an upcoming vacation.
All that said: don't ever stop caring or hesitate to ask if you are concerned!
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