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While riding my bike home from therapy, I saw a bumper sticker that said "God blessed America. America, bless God." I had to read it twice and think about it a moment, which is not really the sign of a successful pithy slogan to be comprehended at a glance. The more I thought about it, that isht seemed so problematic to me, theologically speaking, but then again it's been awhile since I've studied that. Or maybe I'm just making it way more complicated than it's supposed to be. After all, it was stuck to the rear of a car.
I have been working on this occasional project on the nights when its very quiet and empty at the office and I am feeling somewhat inspired, where I type poems on the old typewriter in the copy room. I use the typewriter occasionally for other legitimate work reasons too, because it is the legal profession and modern technology can only take care of so much (so far). But today there was a drama -- an employee fired, another demoted, a new manager coming in tomorrow -- and the result is someone's computer and workstation now occupy where the typewriter was and I can't find it. I've looked. I'm going to go look some more. I e-mailed my friend in that department but of course that doesn't help me now.
I've gotten it in my head that I want an office. Like, a 'real' office, away from where I live. It wouldn't take that much money -- a couple hundred dollars a month -- but that is not money I can afford right now, given my credit card debt and upcoming end to the student loan deferral period. (I shouldn't even be spending money constantly on plants for the backyard, but whatever, that and the Great Tomato Growing Project of 2007 keeps me happy and sane.) It's more that I'm putting it out there into the ether, for a future desire, maybe next fall after I get a raise at work. It would ideally be small, me alone, with hardwood floors and a window, possibly even a high rise with a nice view of the city and/or lake, and in it I would have a desk, a chair (or a loveseat/futon if room), a bookshelf and a typewriter. I would bring my own laptop for working, but I like the idea of the clack-clack-clack, as a fixture in the room that is aesthetically pleasing and utilitarian. A room of one's own, as Virginia said, and it's not just for women, the idea is that men had them and women didn't. An idea for everyone. Even though I'm also simultaneously thinking about how specifically american and western it is to be so fixated on individualism and independence, and how completely inaccurate it is -- we are, as a culture, the LEAST independent beings because we rely on thousands, if not millions, of anonymous unnamed people (or even people we can see but choose to ignore their contribution) to produce the products we require on a daily basis, to enable us to move through the world, to keep us afloat. Perhaps this dependency lurks in the back of our psyche and since it remains unaddressed, it manifests in this perpetual need to separate ourselves and declare ourself unique individuals who can absolutely stand on our own without any help.
Whoa, tangent.
Anyway, here's a poem, if you're into that sort of thing. I stumbled upon this while working up in Evanston today. It's long.
( I shall not be the one. I shall not wake with you beside me early in that beach-house, tasting the salt of morning on your lips, holding your hand to take you to the day. There shall be others; there shall be a man who sleeps late, seldom dreams, swims with small strokes, someone who can not love but makes the time pass. )
I have been working on this occasional project on the nights when its very quiet and empty at the office and I am feeling somewhat inspired, where I type poems on the old typewriter in the copy room. I use the typewriter occasionally for other legitimate work reasons too, because it is the legal profession and modern technology can only take care of so much (so far). But today there was a drama -- an employee fired, another demoted, a new manager coming in tomorrow -- and the result is someone's computer and workstation now occupy where the typewriter was and I can't find it. I've looked. I'm going to go look some more. I e-mailed my friend in that department but of course that doesn't help me now.
I've gotten it in my head that I want an office. Like, a 'real' office, away from where I live. It wouldn't take that much money -- a couple hundred dollars a month -- but that is not money I can afford right now, given my credit card debt and upcoming end to the student loan deferral period. (I shouldn't even be spending money constantly on plants for the backyard, but whatever, that and the Great Tomato Growing Project of 2007 keeps me happy and sane.) It's more that I'm putting it out there into the ether, for a future desire, maybe next fall after I get a raise at work. It would ideally be small, me alone, with hardwood floors and a window, possibly even a high rise with a nice view of the city and/or lake, and in it I would have a desk, a chair (or a loveseat/futon if room), a bookshelf and a typewriter. I would bring my own laptop for working, but I like the idea of the clack-clack-clack, as a fixture in the room that is aesthetically pleasing and utilitarian. A room of one's own, as Virginia said, and it's not just for women, the idea is that men had them and women didn't. An idea for everyone. Even though I'm also simultaneously thinking about how specifically american and western it is to be so fixated on individualism and independence, and how completely inaccurate it is -- we are, as a culture, the LEAST independent beings because we rely on thousands, if not millions, of anonymous unnamed people (or even people we can see but choose to ignore their contribution) to produce the products we require on a daily basis, to enable us to move through the world, to keep us afloat. Perhaps this dependency lurks in the back of our psyche and since it remains unaddressed, it manifests in this perpetual need to separate ourselves and declare ourself unique individuals who can absolutely stand on our own without any help.
Whoa, tangent.
Anyway, here's a poem, if you're into that sort of thing. I stumbled upon this while working up in Evanston today. It's long.
( I shall not be the one. I shall not wake with you beside me early in that beach-house, tasting the salt of morning on your lips, holding your hand to take you to the day. There shall be others; there shall be a man who sleeps late, seldom dreams, swims with small strokes, someone who can not love but makes the time pass. )
