paisleypiper's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- middle sort of day Still, we have not finished the construction project in the back � we thought, putting in new bench seating in the pergola, easy, certainly not harder than a fence? We�ve spent longer on it than the fence. It has to do with how many little slats of wood it takes to make two long benches, how many holes need to be pre-drilled, how many little slats we must find in our scrap pile. None of that fun approaches easing the monotony we are beginning to feel for this project. It�s easy at the beginning and middle of projects. Therapeutic. Refreshing. The air, the sun, the physical movement, the challenges of figuring out how to go about each step. We thought through all that about 132 pre-drilled holes ago. Now, it feels like drudgery. I think it is due to lack of music. Everything goes so much better with music, but we don�t have a little portable music device to bring outside. And I was feeling to shy to suggest turning up the inside stereo loud enough to hear outside. Today I had a weird day. A day where I don�t know where I stand. A day where I just put myself out �there,� boldly. I complained at work and my complaint was taken seriously � it may have been the first time anyone had encountered a formal complaint, an in-a-memo complaint from me. All day I felt a bit like a squeaky wheel getting grease. The jury remains to be called back in with a verdict regarding whether or not management was actively managing the situation I instigated with my memo of irritation. That�s what management does � they manage potential difficulties with employees who express frustration with the state of affairs in the office. Although, it seemed more genuine than I would have imagined possible from the esquire and the community liaison, and I am aware that if I reflected on that too much I would open my mind to great states of paranoia. So, I�m going to resist that train of thought. I'm going to derail my impulse to over-analyze. Most of life is a delusion, any way, so I may as well be deluded in my favor. Today I had a weird day. My former poetry teacher returned my portfolio to me in campus mail. For some reason I had a premonition that this would happen and I intercepted the campus mail sitting on Stella�s desk. I don�t open my own mail and that would have been disasterous considering what was inside. People in the office would have interpreted that as proof that I suck. I caught myself wondering how a poet could not imagine the various states of mail-reception in the world? Do assistant directors unilaterally open their own mail? I tend to get a stack of mail in my mail box, all stripped of their exterior packaging. Opening the mail, one of the only fun parts of being an administrative assistant. I opened the package, nervously, and then discovered that she wrote all over every paper. Just chock full of suggestions. And nothing nice or closurely � I was so glad that I saw her at graduation and she said �great portfolio� because she doesn�t use words like �great� lightly. But still, I was disappointed that there was so much for comment on my portfolio. I got a sinking feeling of how much road there is between me and getting something published. I walked into staff meeting, thinking, what would be so wrong with just going to work every day and watching television every night? Maybe getting in a little exercise. Maybe drinking the occasional glass of wine. For starters, I think I would become depressed because writing is the only thing that makes me feel like I have a soul in my body. After staff meeting, I received an e-mail from my former poetry teacher telling me that she got busy and forgot to let me know that my portfolio was coming through campus mail. That she figured I would be wanting it back (�knowing you!� she wrote). She also said that she figured I�d want some response from her so she tried to give me some but that time�s winged chariot was at her back. The e-mail struck me as friendly, which she can be, and seemed to offset the constructive masacre on the page. Another opportunity to not over-analyze. She has a talent for being able to think of 100 ways to change a poem. Today I had a weird day. And just sort of struggled in-between lots of steps. I realized that for me, weird days are often those days of lots of middle and no resolution. Tomorrow is Friday. The brilliance of the structure of the traditional work week lies in the promise of some sort of forced resolution with the weekend. Really just a hiatus for workers lucky enough to not worry all weekend or work through the weekend. But then so much of life is about deluding myself, so I may as well seek the advantage of the shelter of the weekend. 11:08 p.m. - 2003-05-29 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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