cluttering the net since 2001


Friday, May. 19, 2006
Sometimes when Im at the Penitentiary (workwhere I work I mean).I imagine all the lovely things I could be doing if I were independently wealthy. I could be on an island in the sun cracking coconuts with an axe. I could be on a ship listening to the clinking glass of my cocktail next to the mans smiling as we sail. I could be reading the best book ever written that I have not read yet. I could be sitting on a massage chair getting a lovely pedicure while listening to my favorite song on my ipod headphones.

As I lament all of these lovely things I could be doing but am not doing, I always bring my thoughts back to reality like a record being scratched by the immediate mobbing needle just by thinking one thought.

I could be sitting at home watching daytime television.


Yes reality isthat when I stayed home for two years with my son I had a lovely time watching him grow and change and watching him sit then stand then crawl then shuffle then mumble then talk. It was blissful. Those days are gone. Hes growing up quickly.

The thought of sitting at home now means, cleaning the toilet, washing dishes, feeding the dog, picking up ashtrays, putting away things that have no place to be put away to. The mere notion of going home now means something different for me. It means an entire other world of responsibilities and if I were there long enough I would grow bored and tired, etc. By Saturday evening if I have no school work (which is rare) I have grown restless and bored and wish I had something to do.

So, when Penitentiary feels tiring I remind myself that anything that you do for more than 4 hours straight makes you wish for something different.

Right now itd be nice if I just had a window.


Back to that statement about my son growing up quickly. The last few years have felt like the solar system must feel if those planets were real entities. Always circuling in the same direction, passing each other as changes are happening coming back into full view, and then a slight growing, maturing and yet a recognizing of the same little boy I got back on November 22, 1992.

Jasjf;lasjfa;s/.a.. = (the sound of a record player needle scraping across the record)

2:53 p.m. ::
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