28 February, 2006
if you don't work, you don't eat

imagine you have an expendable old electric mixer.

collect a handful of marbles... each etched with a different word, such as:

rage
frustration
lust
outrage
emptiness
exhaustion
responsibility
frenzy
destiny
ennui
homesickness

...and drop them into the glass container. cover, very tightly...
...because, you will next flip the switch to "puree" and pray that you have a tight grip, and that the sides don't shatter. otherwise, somebody's gonna get hurt.

that, crudely, is an allegory for what's happening in my head. or i should say "was happening", until Friday.

nine days, one hundred-eleven hours of work. five one hundred-seventy-mile round trips.

that'll make you nice and raw inside.

this is what i was reflecting upon on my way back to the scene of the crime, with Butane James and Marva Wright singing that funky song in the title... spun, courtesy of the Rum Cove, at the radio station.

the workforce whittled down to a skeleton staff, the biggest influx of magazines in company history, and the SeoulMan being called away to his brother's funeral in Korea equalled impossible odds for Ska "T"'s mental strengths, and his appreciation for the graphic arts.

there's light at the end of this particular tunnel, though.

but, tonight, it's enough to put some fresh words on this page... that will stimulate some more in the coming hours. meanwhile, i'll keep the lid on.

.