A pile of papers on the desk finally close to being cleared, of spinning plates and juggling in this three ring circus of peonage, smiling and picking at my food, scavenging after the events for lukewarm coffee and leftover fruit, keeping the snark in check and realizing that letting out too much of my brains tends to have dire consequences among my superiors.
Having survived awkward social situations over lunch where I observed the angstings of fellow twentysomethings, awkward lunch dates, and marveled at the culinary generica of fine dining, endured an hour of the grind of history and being fed up with every -ism in existence, as we guess which one of us is going to say something in class first. I grew to expect absurdity when I was an undergrad, but now that I'm not just going along to get through, I get restless and my thoughts shoot off like fireworks in every direction, but instead of speaking up because my words and thoughts get so tangled, I doodle furiously in the margins and try not to roll my eyes as everyone talks about women who were totally down with the revolution.
No matter who's in charge, no matter what they say, the peonage get screwed in one way or another by the more powerful. It happens under czars and Dear Leaders and Mr. Presidents. The cast is different, the story the same.
I'm pondering all this as I miss the first bus and walk downtown to catch the next, in no real hurry, watching all the other working stiffs and the long lines of cars, the corner of the street where there are people sleeping when I ride in. 1 in 6 people in my country are living in poverty. Those of us who are really fortunate like yours truly hover just slightly above that line. Others will continue to bounce from one prestigious position to another, raking in the cash and perks. I wonder how they sleep at night.
A nap, a phone conversation, going up to church to wait for my fellow musicians to get there. Nobody's around so I pull out some old drumsticks and bang away at cymbals, toms and snare, surprised that the little bit of muscle memory is actually doing something even though I really don't know what I'm doing. One of my coworkers gave me a set she got from one of my other coworkers that I used to play when I lived at the old place and the roommate wasn't home, and I can at least do the Meg White if not the John Bonham. No one's here as it is so I can make all the noise I want and by the time they show up I've locked into some kind of rhythm. It's cathartic and I wonder why I don't do it more. It's something I'd love to do well.