“May you live in interesting times,” the Chinese curse at one another, and brothers and sisters I have had about all of the interesting I need for the month. At this point I think if I put salt on my food it might be enough to send me screaming for a private cell in Chatahoochee.
I watch the carefree state office workers strolling to their cars as early as 3:45 P:M, taking advantage of their “flex-time” no doubt. With a day’s work behind them they are free to go home to their families,their cats,their ships in bottles, Folfing rendevous, Mixed Martial Arts classes, Shipwreck margaritas at the Cabo’s bar, barbershop quartet, Reiki lessons, or tend to their fantasy football league.
I have only the list. The list that measures in exposed detail the rewards of achievement and the consequences of failure. I eat the list. I sleep the list. The list is a self-populating menace that rules my dreams and waking hours.
At the end of the list is that moment when I close the door, lock it, and sit hooded like the falcon in repose.