bunt sign

Tuesday, April 2, 2002

I'm not sure what else could go wrong today, but I'm wearing a helmet, just in case. The buzzards are circling low, and that's not even a metaphor. (Well, I guess it is, but it's also the literal truth.) This was set up to be such a great day. I was going to get so much done. Suddenly, pffft.

My back hurts, my head hurts, and I'm sneezing so hard it makes me weep. Every time the phone rings, it's another disaster. Even when it isn't, it's something else that keeps me from watching the first Giants game of the season. What's the use of working at home if I can't watch baseball? I should be in some soulless office where other people answer the phone, and all I have to do is get my work done and go home.

And. On top of that, it was gray and cold and windy all day. Not a speck of sun until late in the afternoon. Just when I need it to be warm and bright it's chilly and dark.

But. I didn't do much damage, because when I was looking for something to throw all I could reach was a couch pillow.

And. I seem to have forgotten how to write complete sentences.

Instead of working late into the night, as I should have since I got so far behind with busywork, I shut it off at four o'clock. This gave me a chance to ice my back, catch my breath, and keep my sanity. Sometimes the trivial nature of my job gets to be too much for me, but if I turn away for a few minutes it's okay again. I can get back to work tomorrow with a better attitude. If, that is, everything doesn't swirl down to hell as it did today.

It's not that I can afford to get any further behind, but I wouldn't be making any progress if I'd worked in the mood I was in. What I need is for time to stop. Once I get caught up on everything on my to-do list, and all the other papers on my desk that haven't even made it to the list yet, and a thorough cleaning of my house, and about three days of sleep, then the clocks can start running again. I'm not sure how long all that would take, but that's the point, isn't it? It's Time that I don't seem to have.

the top of the birch

The top of the birch.

Seriously, every so often today out of the corner of my eye I'd see a large shadow roll through the yard. When I looked out, a buzzard was swooping closer than ever to the house. That was ominous, but the greater threat to me is the pair of finches who insist on making the porch their hangout. They haven't built a nest there yet, and maybe that means it's just a place they like to play.

They're obsessed with my wooden wind chimes and would love to pull apart the strings that hold them to the corner of the porch roof. Peck, pull, peck, pull, all day long, until they see me watching them. Then they go away until they forget (which doesn't take long, birds having very tiny brains and all). I expect at some point to find the chimes on the ground and all the strings gone for building materials.

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One year ago: Family Affair
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Two years ago: Movin' On Up
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