In His Window
Wednesday. The rumor was we'd hear of a major coupling between our company and another company yesterday when the day was done. The rumor now is the major coupling suffered corporate interruptus and senior management is faced with Plan B. Plan B will not be wonderful and thinking about "not wonderful" many beers into the wind after a Wednesday after work session at the brewery pub is, well, depressing. Still, news like this is always depressing, except for the follow on thought I won't starve or be thrown out of my apartment for at least a year (what with savings and unemployment) and that is so nice to think about I'm going to leave it to later to savour in a more sober moment.
Thursday. Calm down, young man, give it a break. All this carping and moaning and spouting is hanging a hoodoo around your neck. Don't need no hoodoo around your neck now do we boy-o? No need to ask. Hoodoo comes uninvited, unasked, unwanted doing a tango dance when the moon is full, when the moon is neigh; when the sun rocks out in a raspberry sky, when the journaler's wish, if wishes could be, is to write something clever for all to see. Moon - June - Spoon. Night photography subjects these days, the stuff of exposure meters and cellophane wrapped lights. Not much romance left in Moon - June - Spoon. Less and less romance left, for that matter, in this Intel life. Sex, yes. Lots of sex - all those transistors cooking under a hot heat sink - but little left of the romantic. Wam! Bam! Nano man! Do you detect a mind on numb, a brain on stun, a certain lack of shame? Nano man? Raspberry sky (me-oh-my)?
Hot weather these last two days. Wednesday had pockets of a hundred degrees and I found half the populace on the sidewalk in front of my apartment when I got home Wednesday. Well, three or four younger men and women doing a mating dance - drinking, talking, listening - to one another, to one another on cell phones, to one another through email over wireless PDA's, all the while listening to a player in a car belting out MP3's downloaded from the web and burned to a CD. A Twenty First Century group on the stoop outside sweating. My, my, thought I, people live in these buildings around me. The one sign of life I've seen so far is the series of messages the guy across the street's put up in his window addressed to his landlord and the world in the alley.
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