Descending the summit.
Twenty-seven pages and fifteen exhibits; about $32 to proof, print and bind. Two years of my life are sitting discreetly in an unassuming brown sack on the console table, branded with that familiar royal-blue "Kinko's" logo. As if they had anything to do with it. Well, besides being very gentle with me as I wandered bleary-eyed from PC to printer and back, releasing a faint cloud of dingy cigarette odor with every exhausted but jittery step. Assembling the pages with shaky hands, this one in black-and-white and those two in color. When have I ever been that nervous? I think I lost my virginity with more aplomb.
By 7pm, bound document in one hand and burrito in the other, I was on my way home. Driving through the dissociative tunnel-vision, bug-eyed confusion and complete loss of context. I am suffering from post-documentum, a disarming sense of empty space and purposelessness where "Business Project" once made it's aggressive home.
Even now, I have no monologue, no analytical process. Each moment is an independent event, linked to nothing and leading nowhere. I've been in this paragraph for fourteen minutes but the dots just won't connect. The unintentional stillness would be unnerving, were I conscious enough to think much about it. The cat is staring at me and I'm feeling a sudden sense of communion with his simple hierarchy of needs. Eat, sleep, stare at the birds walking the wires outside the window, lean in for a headrub and purr contentedly. Perhaps it could be this effortless and pure, at least for a few days.
But somebody's gonna have to come over and mow my lawn.
Twenty-seven pages and fifteen exhibits; about $32 to proof, print and bind. Two years of my life are sitting discreetly in an unassuming brown sack on the console table, branded with that familiar royal-blue "Kinko's" logo. As if they had anything to do with it. Well, besides being very gentle with me as I wandered bleary-eyed from PC to printer and back, releasing a faint cloud of dingy cigarette odor with every exhausted but jittery step. Assembling the pages with shaky hands, this one in black-and-white and those two in color. When have I ever been that nervous? I think I lost my virginity with more aplomb.
By 7pm, bound document in one hand and burrito in the other, I was on my way home. Driving through the dissociative tunnel-vision, bug-eyed confusion and complete loss of context. I am suffering from post-documentum, a disarming sense of empty space and purposelessness where "Business Project" once made it's aggressive home.
Even now, I have no monologue, no analytical process. Each moment is an independent event, linked to nothing and leading nowhere. I've been in this paragraph for fourteen minutes but the dots just won't connect. The unintentional stillness would be unnerving, were I conscious enough to think much about it. The cat is staring at me and I'm feeling a sudden sense of communion with his simple hierarchy of needs. Eat, sleep, stare at the birds walking the wires outside the window, lean in for a headrub and purr contentedly. Perhaps it could be this effortless and pure, at least for a few days.
But somebody's gonna have to come over and mow my lawn.
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