home alone

the music i sometimes play at my desk distracts me in very physical ways. like just now, i broke into clapping and swaying like ray frickin' charles up in here on account of this track by mary j blige . i got all caught up in it, rode it to its glorious end, then calmly returned to writing letters to certain caucus critics for the ywca event.

sometimes it amazes me that i don't have to go Out There to work. mostly, it doesn't really occur to me - the madness of my lists means i dwell less on environment than predicament. but every so often, it hits me: this is where i work. on my terms. i don't have to get up at the crack of dawn, primp, combat traffic. i don't have a ridiculous ID badge dangling from my belt loop or a special card to wave robotically in front of the black access panel to make the elevator go. i don't have to navigate parkades or security guards or beige mazes of cubicles to get to my desk. even better, my soul isn't being gradually sucked out of me by shitty fluorescent lighting, recycled air, and petty office politics.

there is a sheer joy that comes from knowing my entire awake period is like a piece of clay that i can knead, sculpt, or squish between occasionally idle fingers however i so choose. best (or worst?) of all, i don't have to worry about this weirdo-ness affecting other people, which is, as martha says, a good thing.


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