I had always leaned toward ee cummings punctuation wise, and then the iPhone thing pretty much cemented it.
Lately I’ve been posting photos on Instagram, not on WordPress. Because I guess I like my social media to be as organized as the food on my plate.
This is from today….
Maybe because it suits her mood most days, she parks in the lowest level of the parking garage at work.
Only today – several thousand days into her existence here – did she realize that the garage elevator labeled the ground floor as “Roof level” – like maybe it was transporting her to a glamorous penthouse instead of just to the entry floor of the office complex.
And she decided to hang on to that idea the rest of the gloomy day.
You think it’s just you.
But then you realize that there are other people who are more likely to run out of toilet paper before they would run out of coffee.
It has just happened to you a few times more than the average person.
She noticed that the local church was giving out blessed water in Poland Spring bottles now. Well, now, she thought, nothing like the convenience of grab-n-go holy water without the wait for spiritual repentance.
I’ve been trying to follow along on Facebook and Instagram and Twitter, people, but I still have no idea what’s going on – not even the fake stuff sticks. That social media highway is just moving too fast for me and I don’t want to be that one single person who says, “Uh, when did you get divorced/pregnant/canned from work/disowned by your relatives/your hair dyed”, etc.
Can’t we just meet for coffee and call it a day? Or even better, make plans to meet for coffee that we then cancel after which we trade a few mild guilt-ridden texts or emails to catch up ?
That’s my kind of socializing.
I ate half of a live grasshopper at lunch this week. And not on purpose. It was covered in sesame ginger dressing and wiggling it’s arms weakly at me after I bit into its crunchy thorax.
You’d imagine it would have tasted nasty or otherwise “different” but it was the cafeteria and most of the things there taste gross to me. Eating there is about staying alive, not about enjoying the taste of the food.
The cafeteria manager, who I happen to know quite well, told me that the grasshopper was a sign of how fresh the salad was, that a few live grasshoppers was the price to be paid for “locally sourced organic” produce.
I spent the rest of the day drinking boatloads of water and thinking that a prickly leg was still caught in my throat.
And that was kind of the end of the “farm to table” movement for me.
Her favorite work time stress reliever – totally old school – was to crumple up sheets of paper in frustration and throw them around her work area.
But since the company took away all of their personal trash cans, she’d been a little down in the dumps. The collectively shared, socially responsible, skinny bins had the most narrow slot for inserting paper, one that did not accommodate her many balled-up sheets of torn notepad pages.
Now, at the end of every day, she stood around smoothing out the sheets at the institutional gray recycling bin and felt the pleasure drain out of her psyche.
She wrote a haiku about Godzilla.
And that was just what she did this morning at work.
She could hardly wait for the rest of the day.
I know what it is
to put my hands in the dirt,
to have it in the folds
of my skin and in the
creases that run the
length of my body, to
mingle flesh with earth
and to be one with it