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Wednesday, Mar. 27, 2002 / 3:28 p.m. ~Mental Acuity, or Simply a Second Update to Further Blather?~ My horoscope said this was a day of mental acuity, and I feel it. As I left the liquor store parking lot, just dropping by to pick up the free weekly paper, I wanted to write every experience, every sensation, the man with the cigar who walked past me to his convertible, the way his cigar smoke hung on me, and I didn�t mind. Or the way I felt when I saw the County crew out cutting down all the vegetation, even the blooming forsythia and Bradford pears, from the island at the Parkway exit ramp. Those beautiful trees and shrubs, in full bloom, gone, and as I drove by I wanted to weep, but only said, aloud, �I�m sorry, I�m so sorry for the actions of my fellow humans.� And in that moment I wanted to leave this life. My hatred for humanity was erupting once again. But I had gone home after that, gotten past the traffic diverted on the highway, past the SUV sitting the wrong way in the far right lane, with a trailer smashed into it, made it home in spite of the obstacles, made my garlic bologna and provolone sandwich, alternating days with sun dried tomato/rosemary ham, and ate, and checked email and picked up Norman, and called her Nerm and she didn�t mind, picked her up and hugged her, squeezed her until she made a �Stop squeezing me!� sound, smelled that smell she has, that wonderful sort of dirty sock smell, and she began to purr. And out in the sunshine again, now back at work, joining in the team efforts to check our work before the audit, even feeling better since D., the Supervisor, pulled me aside and we talked. I�d emailed her on my break, telling her how hard it is to talk to her, and she addressed that, said how important I am, how she misses being just a �rep�, how when I leave she will go too, that she would go now if she could, and I�d no idea. I didn�t know. She said I should write up a suggestion for the Suggestion Box re: the Recycling efforts here at work, and I did. And it all feels tolerable, not better, not really, but so much happens beyond our control. I can�t help that those men are out axing those shrubs today, I can�t make Listerine stop humming, but maybe I can help us to recycle, or maybe I can be happy hugging my girls, maybe I can love when I can, and write what I see and feel, and maybe find peace, if not happiness. My hands are hot. Veronica just did an abbreviated spiritual interpretive dance. I have my fan blowing on my face, I held my hands in front of it, but I wish there could be a cool running stream in the aisle, and I could remove my shoes and put my feet there, and reach my hands in to catch the ripples. Shake them off to dry. Then sit on a rock in the sun, lizard-like. Instead, I imagine I�ll go to the bathroom soon, and run my hands under the cool water from the faucet. Cost of the War in Iraq
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