Oh, the joy of moving cubicles! Packing things up, sorting through things, rediscovering things, throwing things away, recycling things, putting things in new places where this time, for sure, you are going to remember where they are really. Arranging things so that from the point of view of people passing by, you look clean and organized (as long as you don't leave the overhead bin with all your plushies open). There's something refreshing about doing this (and not just because I am leaving behind my old place next to the Noisy Neighbor.
Do you feel this sense of shedding old skin and donning new when you move desks/offices/cubicles?
I don't remember the last time I flew at night just before Christmas. I think I would remember the lights. Instead of just the usual narrow range of city light colors that mostly wash out to a slightly yellow pale, the Christmas lights shine forth in slightly anarchic joy. Random colors, random shapes not arranged to be seen from above: they are beautiful, and I love them and the chance I had to see them when the night flights were as cheap as the usually cheapest 5 AM flights I've taken the last several years on the way to see my family over Christmas.
I didn't actually see anything. I just heard it: the crunching squeal of tires skidding on ice over and over for half a minute in the parking lot, the skid, the crash of a significant impact between two cars, the sound of something glass shattering, the brief silence, more glass falling, the engine gunning, more skidding, and a fishtailing journey out of the icy parking lot and away down the street at something significantly over the speed limit. Why?
I thought about calling the police. I didn't because, well, what can they do when you report hearing a crime? I wondered if I should tell the apartment manager in case the poor person whose parked car got smashed into needed someone to back up their claim to the insurance company that they were a victim and not responsible for the damages. But I didn't SEE it, and the insurance company would still have to pay for it unless the criminal was caught, which would not happen based on my testimony.
In the end, I said nothing and told no one and was very glad I pay extra to have a garage stall to park in at night. I do that because I can't dig my car out of the snow and/or ice, but apparently it's also handy against random acts of pointless, stupid vehicular vandalism. Yes, Mom, my insurance rates did go down when I moved here. I can't really imagine why . . .
The next time we meet, there will be
a dead baby between us, and I will not
know what to say, and I will not want
to make eye contact because I will not
want to cry all over you because things
will be sad enough for you and your
dead baby without my tears.
Written by an exhausted chronic pain suffering writer who thinks too hard about things like art, anime, images, nature, books, manga, scars, quotes, music, work, authors, financial desperation, joy, beauty, humor, and whatever else catches her scattered attention.
Her blog’s name comes from the title poem of her ridiculously long thesis “I am like the moon in autumn,/ losing sleep as summer fades,” which came to her whole while she was driving home toward the moon one November early evening. (The title, not the 450 page thesis. Alas.)