Introductions
All of the walls are a blinding shade of sun-bleached white, and the hallway floors are covered in layers of thick blue paint. There are layers of paint on that cement, somewhere down there, that are as old as some of the people that walk the paths.
This is South Florida. This is where I work.
Fake wood paneling surrounds me at the moment; the desks (which are really tables), the walls, the doors, the bookshelves. It's like stepping into a very special sort of 1970s design aesthetic, and you can almost hear them now.
"It'll be great for a library, really. It's professional, fresh, but homey and comfortable at the same time," comes a voice from three decades past. The back end of the room, even I must admit, is put together in an interesting way; four feet from the back wall the ceiling jumps up another three feet, making the rear wall (as well as parts of the two walls butting against it) seperate from everything else, and windows run the length of the open space created there.
But here I sit, about to lean over some papers and scribble for half an hour, hoping that the knowledge I throw at kids for five hours out of the day sticks enough that they can explain some of it back to me. All while my gal is getting teeth pulled in a half-drugged state, almost a thousand miles away.
I think about the Pope, and how he's on display for all the tourists of the dead that need some sort of moment in light of his passing. I think about the passionate Mexican artist, reading her words of sadness at his passing, the joy at having seen him pass by in a car as a child, and wonder how many of those gathering in Rome share her feelings. I wonder how many just want to be part of a moment that is bigger than they can ever hope to be, to touch it for just a moment.
Maybe the two groups overlap, but I think I know which one is larger; nobody wants to feel adrift in life, not completely, and everybody likes collecting memories.
Me? I remember the building the Pope could walk through any time he wished, think of the love and hate he saw reflected back at him in the mirror of the world, and I find it hard to feel sad. He, as much you can, got out of this whole mess in one piece... may we all be so fortunate.
I have to go back to herding cats in just a little bit, but I think it'll be alright. Having a breather like this, in the morning, makes it much easier to handle.
Really, it's not so bad, but I can't be anything but thankful it's a Thursday.
This is South Florida. This is where I work.
Fake wood paneling surrounds me at the moment; the desks (which are really tables), the walls, the doors, the bookshelves. It's like stepping into a very special sort of 1970s design aesthetic, and you can almost hear them now.
"It'll be great for a library, really. It's professional, fresh, but homey and comfortable at the same time," comes a voice from three decades past. The back end of the room, even I must admit, is put together in an interesting way; four feet from the back wall the ceiling jumps up another three feet, making the rear wall (as well as parts of the two walls butting against it) seperate from everything else, and windows run the length of the open space created there.
But here I sit, about to lean over some papers and scribble for half an hour, hoping that the knowledge I throw at kids for five hours out of the day sticks enough that they can explain some of it back to me. All while my gal is getting teeth pulled in a half-drugged state, almost a thousand miles away.
I think about the Pope, and how he's on display for all the tourists of the dead that need some sort of moment in light of his passing. I think about the passionate Mexican artist, reading her words of sadness at his passing, the joy at having seen him pass by in a car as a child, and wonder how many of those gathering in Rome share her feelings. I wonder how many just want to be part of a moment that is bigger than they can ever hope to be, to touch it for just a moment.
Maybe the two groups overlap, but I think I know which one is larger; nobody wants to feel adrift in life, not completely, and everybody likes collecting memories.
Me? I remember the building the Pope could walk through any time he wished, think of the love and hate he saw reflected back at him in the mirror of the world, and I find it hard to feel sad. He, as much you can, got out of this whole mess in one piece... may we all be so fortunate.
I have to go back to herding cats in just a little bit, but I think it'll be alright. Having a breather like this, in the morning, makes it much easier to handle.
Really, it's not so bad, but I can't be anything but thankful it's a Thursday.
posted by The Masked Brute at 8:58 AM
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