Work

The changing of the seasons: Ah, the dying of the cicada, the leaves turning color, the air getting crisp and everyone in the Northern Hemisphere disappearing for upwards of four months to Lord only knows where. Needless to say, I consider fall to be probably the worst season if you live in a cold place. Primarily because people are always praising how crisp it is, and how nice it is to live in a place with seasons. Clearly none of these people have lived in Santa Barbara where the seasons never change. It's heaven.

Highlights of my cube. An air-conditioner runs at a high volume from the ceiling above my cube blowing consistently cold air on to my right hand and forearm. Thus, while the rest of my body is at a comfortable temperature is always freezing. What's that? Just put on a sweatshirt you say? I can't because then it gets way too hot in my cube. I think I need to wear an Allen Iverson arm sleeve to work, but I'm concerned that co-workers might impugn my fashion sensibilities. I live in constant fear of co-workers impugning my fashion sensibility.

Interpolation:
M: I wish I felt better about the house.
S: I was just starting to feel good about it.
M: I just keep having the feeling that we made a huge mistake. But I don't think we could have made any better decision.
S: What are you saying?
M: We're not rich enough to be happy.

The sky is the color of cement. The ground is wet but doesn't smell of rain. Everyone is reading a book or listening to an iPod. A few of the trees are showing the first signs of fall. A small puddle reflects a patch of barren sky.

M: I just never pictured myself living in Washington, D.C. This whole house thing makes it feel permanent. (Sigh).

I'm walking home with my headphones on. The ear pieces held together with scotch and masking tape. Sometimes I pride myself on not spending money on the smallest things.

S: You're only twenty eight years old. It's not like you're on you're death bed.

Today feels like any other day, the air crisp, a small black squirrel climbing the trunk of a tree.

I find the saying "my mind was somewhere else" to be somewhat of an oxymoron. The mind is always focused on itself. Sometimes I wish I could be somewhere else, watching me read a book or pick out an apple, test its crispness. But there it is again, I cannot get away. I hope I'd think I was a fine fellow. I know myself too well for that.

S: D.C. is too cold. Some other place would be too sunny or too rainy.

Sometimes I turn the music on my headphones off but pretend like I'm listening, so it looks like I have something to do.

M: You made a good point there about D.C. being too cold.

A girl, sandy blond hair, sits on a bench pouring over a book about Shakespeare. Another girl walks past, a look of intense concentration on her face.

S: The point is that no place is perfect.

I am not eager for the days to grow shorter. The days seem short enough. I do not know how much people slept before the invention of electricity.

M: (Continues to listen to Holiday in Spain with a depressed look on my face).

The buildings in the city all appear grey. Monuments to all those who have come before and we walk the streets in the city of the dead.

M: (Choose to ignore the irony of said song planning a Holiday in Spain to get away from Los Angeles).

It strikes me as odd that the whole world, myself included, is busily going about their lives as the center of their own universe. I wonder what people think of me, then stop, because the answer is probably not that often.

I hate Los Angeles too.

The whole scenario strikes me as obscene. The girl reading the book on the bench, a light breeze on my right forearm. And that other girl, crossing in front of me, a look of intense concentration on her face.

Too much damn traffic.

None of us knowing a damn thing about each other, not even names.

Even in the land of eternal sun people are unhappy.

People's sleeping habits have always been influenced by the sun. Even before the arrival of electricity people living on the equator could stay awake for longer. Is sleep a mini-death or a respite from this life?

How odd, that we should all be shuffling about these strange cities believing we are the center of the universe.

According to some Da Vinci slept for only two hours a day.

I wonder if my job will let me take ten minute naps every few hours if I promise to become a genius?

And their is nothing to dissuade us from that fact. Perhaps our minds our right, perhaps we are the center of the known world. What a boring place.

I'd probably just lose coordination skills and act drunk not draw airplanes before they were invented.

Today, it barely rained. I didn't regret my lack of an umbrella. The sky spitting droplets of rain was like cool air upon my forearm. The two woman and I are as far apart as the sun is from the moon. But what if I could close that little space that lies between us? Tell you a story about how I walked home from work today and tried to remind myself that I am not the center of the known world. Would you care how it ended even though it's not a story about you? It ends with me sitting here and you sitting there, a few streets over where the city lights are still bright, or on another continent where the soft morning light is already pushing against the curtains inviting you into another day of prayer. It ends with us together.