Observations from a five week hiatus.
I have been nudged by the lovely inactivism to post. Thus, I shall. Here is the story of my past five weeks -- or at least the important parts.
I
In D.C., everyone runs.
I don't mean this in the poetic or figurative sense (though it is a great way to start a novel, isn't it?) but I mean it in all ways of the literal sense. Runners are everywhere, on every sidewalk, in every outfit, fat, skinny, shorts, sweats, t-shirt, full outfit, old, young, and they run. They run by the flocks of teenagers dragged on this field trip with little understanding of the gravity of their location, run by the homeless folk bundling up frayed and browning blankets underneath bypasses and bridges, run by the icy marble monuments, the glowering faces of Washington D.C. Metro security, run by the big lawyers in Hugo Boss and Armani, thumbs dancing across Blackberry dials and the women in spiked heels who have trained themselves to ignore the fire that strikes with every downstep.
They run by their world, and it runs by them.
II
The inner hallways of the Pentagon are antiseptic and white, aged linoleum on the floors and irritating flourescent lights that reflect poorly on the faces on the flood of men and women that sweep by, some with rolling backpacks and others with attache cases, some texting and others talking hurriedly into phones or to each other, all pushing and shoving to leave before closing. When we come back to the entrance of the Pentagon, we'll still see the river of them streaming down the five escalators and past the formidable security center in the middle of the lobby.
It's easy to feel stifled in here. Easy to feel as if you're living in an artificial fish-bowl, surrounded by artificial fishies in your artificial federal jobs. We walk obediently and with light conversation but almost pause when we look into one room and see a small convienience store and two men -- one with caps, buying candy bars over the corner.
"Move to the side," the sergeant -- our escort -- orders, though gently. "It's closing time, and these people want to get home."
III
They gossip like women. Worse, perhaps. More devious, more cunning.
Five feet away, a senator gently leans back and whispers audibly into the ear of a staff member.
"He's got a good argument," I hear lopsidedly, legs crossed and ankles uncomfortable from walking in heels all over the Hill. "Find me something to use."
The issue is global warming. The panel in question has a combined intelligence off the charts with five PhDs and one Nobel Prize winner. In a raised semi-circle facing the panel, the senate committee splits in the middle.
Across in the Democrats, an aging and widening old senator from Delaware, gold tie and dark-gray hair, speaks loudly, emphasing his point occasionally with the nasally accents of the northeast.
A large man next to me in a beige suit that looks uncomfortable shifts, the leather sqweaking under his bulk. He is a staffer, and he is braced forward, elbows on knees.
"Just because he's loud," the man stage-whispers, enough that even I can hear, "doesn't mean he's right." Another man who wordlessly forces me to scoot closer to the young man on my right snorts softly in agreement, then tilts his ear forward as the two exchange papers and discuss.
And from Oklahoma, the hawkish Senator Inhofe casually leans back, reaches into a pocket and pulls out his Blackberry.
I watch this fifty-something year old man text.
On my right, the young man moves again to get comfortable and sighs.
The ceiling is blue and white.
I see my Zodiac sign.
IV
But the worst part has to be coming back. Back to a town of 20,000. Back to jeans and tennis shoes and t-shirts and little traffic and little politics and little importance. A part of me starts panging for my skirts. My tights. My blouses and my makeup and my knee-length dress jacket and my heels -- those demonic and evil flats and heels.
The world seems more slow, here. More unaware, more lazy and more at ease with being non-existant. It doesn't care particularly what happened today in the Supreme Court, though maybe five years later, it'll bitch absently about it. It doesn't care for suits, for courtesy, for power or truth or lies. This world thrives on diesel trucks, big-rigs, cows and the outdoors.
I start driving an SUV again, and when I look outside at the barely century old architexture and history, I find myself bored.
(I dream about running in Georgetown again).
I
In D.C., everyone runs.
I don't mean this in the poetic or figurative sense (though it is a great way to start a novel, isn't it?) but I mean it in all ways of the literal sense. Runners are everywhere, on every sidewalk, in every outfit, fat, skinny, shorts, sweats, t-shirt, full outfit, old, young, and they run. They run by the flocks of teenagers dragged on this field trip with little understanding of the gravity of their location, run by the homeless folk bundling up frayed and browning blankets underneath bypasses and bridges, run by the icy marble monuments, the glowering faces of Washington D.C. Metro security, run by the big lawyers in Hugo Boss and Armani, thumbs dancing across Blackberry dials and the women in spiked heels who have trained themselves to ignore the fire that strikes with every downstep.
They run by their world, and it runs by them.
II
The inner hallways of the Pentagon are antiseptic and white, aged linoleum on the floors and irritating flourescent lights that reflect poorly on the faces on the flood of men and women that sweep by, some with rolling backpacks and others with attache cases, some texting and others talking hurriedly into phones or to each other, all pushing and shoving to leave before closing. When we come back to the entrance of the Pentagon, we'll still see the river of them streaming down the five escalators and past the formidable security center in the middle of the lobby.
It's easy to feel stifled in here. Easy to feel as if you're living in an artificial fish-bowl, surrounded by artificial fishies in your artificial federal jobs. We walk obediently and with light conversation but almost pause when we look into one room and see a small convienience store and two men -- one with caps, buying candy bars over the corner.
"Move to the side," the sergeant -- our escort -- orders, though gently. "It's closing time, and these people want to get home."
III
They gossip like women. Worse, perhaps. More devious, more cunning.
Five feet away, a senator gently leans back and whispers audibly into the ear of a staff member.
"He's got a good argument," I hear lopsidedly, legs crossed and ankles uncomfortable from walking in heels all over the Hill. "Find me something to use."
The issue is global warming. The panel in question has a combined intelligence off the charts with five PhDs and one Nobel Prize winner. In a raised semi-circle facing the panel, the senate committee splits in the middle.
Across in the Democrats, an aging and widening old senator from Delaware, gold tie and dark-gray hair, speaks loudly, emphasing his point occasionally with the nasally accents of the northeast.
A large man next to me in a beige suit that looks uncomfortable shifts, the leather sqweaking under his bulk. He is a staffer, and he is braced forward, elbows on knees.
"Just because he's loud," the man stage-whispers, enough that even I can hear, "doesn't mean he's right." Another man who wordlessly forces me to scoot closer to the young man on my right snorts softly in agreement, then tilts his ear forward as the two exchange papers and discuss.
And from Oklahoma, the hawkish Senator Inhofe casually leans back, reaches into a pocket and pulls out his Blackberry.
I watch this fifty-something year old man text.
On my right, the young man moves again to get comfortable and sighs.
The ceiling is blue and white.
I see my Zodiac sign.
IV
But the worst part has to be coming back. Back to a town of 20,000. Back to jeans and tennis shoes and t-shirts and little traffic and little politics and little importance. A part of me starts panging for my skirts. My tights. My blouses and my makeup and my knee-length dress jacket and my heels -- those demonic and evil flats and heels.
The world seems more slow, here. More unaware, more lazy and more at ease with being non-existant. It doesn't care particularly what happened today in the Supreme Court, though maybe five years later, it'll bitch absently about it. It doesn't care for suits, for courtesy, for power or truth or lies. This world thrives on diesel trucks, big-rigs, cows and the outdoors.
I start driving an SUV again, and when I look outside at the barely century old architexture and history, I find myself bored.
(I dream about running in Georgetown again).