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Wednesday, Sept. 25, 2002 / 1:28 p.m. ~Just Another Day At Work~ Upon waking I was bored. Every motion, every action, every movement done the same as every day. No way to really break it up, not enough. Behind this building the wind is always blowing. It feels like the seashore. I hear seagulls squawking, but they're crows instead. The sky is big out there, like we're not here at all, but somewhere very different. Today the rain was falling, hard and light, and the wind blew it into my legs, my feet, anything not covered with the umbrella collapsing from the wind. And I am the one to open the blinds the new security guard sees necessary to close every night, and I ask why, and she says, "We don't worry about it, we don't go over there", and I think, But you look out the windows once the blinds are opened, don't you?, and Don't you care that there is a world out there, it's windy and the sky is big and there are crows that squawk like seagulls, and in the Summertime if you close your eyes and hold your arms outstretched it feels like you are at the shore. If you let yourself feel it, you can even smell the ocean. Sitting, reading, listening to music, anything to take me out of here, he says, "I know, you're in your Zone", and I think Yes, yes, it's all I have, it's the only way. And I sit looking at the jewel case, the box that holds this CD when I'm not listening, look at the photo there of him under water, and look at his hands, his fingers splayed, the bubbles rising from his entry into the water, and the thought that takes hold of me is his fingers touching me. His fingers wet and slimy with my juices. Those creative hands, those fingers that play guitar and piano and conga drums, the fingers that hold the pen when he's drawing, when he's composing, the fingers that sift through his collection of samples, the fingers that hold his bagna, his vegan sandwich as he brings it to his mouth. Fingers underwater, long and white, and my imagination took them and ran. Anything to escape this place. It's easy to dream. I have to open the blinds that cover the only view out of here. I have to see. I have to breathe fresh air, I have to know there's more. I have to close my eyes when I'm outside, I have to hold my arms outstretched, I have to hear the seagulls, feel the ocean breeze� even if it's really concrete, asphalt, a low office building in an office park. Here is nothing, but out there is the world, how can you not want to see it? Cost of the War in Iraq
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