(no subject)
working in the library, isolated, rhythmic, pushing the cart, picking up books, shifting shelves.
i listen to my portable radio, npr--depressing world news and classical music in my two hour block. remarkably good reception for a first-level basement between stacks.
[why is there less static when i put my radio on the bookshelves?]
chopin concerto, i don't know which one. shelving Nx through Pa, discourse and rhetoric and chomsky and derrida, some linguistics texts; gradually books become greek. daydreaming. someday i just want to leave everything behind, build a simple simple house with my hands in south texas or west mexico on a lot of land, read, write [my most secret daydream], paint, grow vegetables, listen to the radio in dry sun heat. do i really think salvation is in a garden?
something changed out the window.
it's snowing. so dense the air looks stagnant with it. marraige of figaro in my ears, woman's operatic voice punctuated with static. the static, the voice, the snow. i'm crying.
i sneak upstairs, tiptoe past where my boss should be: act natural. i run outside. my coat is by his office, i'm wearing a white tank top and a baseball hat and sweatpants [plan to go to gym after work]. the woman keeps singing, no static now; people look at me smiling, i realize it must be because i'm smiling. down the daffodil-hill to the science field. i trump to the middle of the lawn and lay down, watch the white snow fall from the white sky.
the movement ends, npr man introduces the next piece. i'm cold. 45 minutes left of work.
i listen to my portable radio, npr--depressing world news and classical music in my two hour block. remarkably good reception for a first-level basement between stacks.
[why is there less static when i put my radio on the bookshelves?]
chopin concerto, i don't know which one. shelving Nx through Pa, discourse and rhetoric and chomsky and derrida, some linguistics texts; gradually books become greek. daydreaming. someday i just want to leave everything behind, build a simple simple house with my hands in south texas or west mexico on a lot of land, read, write [my most secret daydream], paint, grow vegetables, listen to the radio in dry sun heat. do i really think salvation is in a garden?
something changed out the window.
it's snowing. so dense the air looks stagnant with it. marraige of figaro in my ears, woman's operatic voice punctuated with static. the static, the voice, the snow. i'm crying.
i sneak upstairs, tiptoe past where my boss should be: act natural. i run outside. my coat is by his office, i'm wearing a white tank top and a baseball hat and sweatpants [plan to go to gym after work]. the woman keeps singing, no static now; people look at me smiling, i realize it must be because i'm smiling. down the daffodil-hill to the science field. i trump to the middle of the lawn and lay down, watch the white snow fall from the white sky.
the movement ends, npr man introduces the next piece. i'm cold. 45 minutes left of work.