New Cities/New Soviets

May 04, 2003

Season -- the new air

It came on rather suddenly -- I am now breathing pushcart air.

I didn't notice until tonight. Tonight when I could unwind a little. Tomorrow I don't have to go in until 10 AM. Today, Sunday, I was in at 8 AM. Saturday before 8:30. Thursday: 9:00.

This is what my job has become for me: a series of numbers on a punch-clock. A punch clock which has still not been adjusted for daylight savings, creating bizzare time fissures. I go there. I return. Things happen. There are events. Yes; but I am not there.

Thursday during lunch I really wasn't (see previous entry "May Day"). The worker's holiday, no less. God, I did more work on that day than any other this year. I met several people rather briefly who, collectively, hold my brightest hopes for the future.

The blog entry stops oddly for reasons I can't entirely remember, and the photographs have somehow disappeared from our digital camera's memory chip. Alien abduction? You tell me. So I will have to fill in gaps as best I can.

I definately had an excellent sandwich at my favorite hero shop, called, simply, "Hero Hero." Or maybe that's just what it says on the sign. But it definately is on 46th street, and it definately is the best. Loose but full, with a nice variety of meats, provolone cheese, lettuce, tomato, onion, (no hots), oragano, salt, pepper, salad oil and vinegar. Molly and I share one. There is powdered soap in the bathrooms (and apparently no light in the women's).

This happened. This is true. We went on to pick up the perfect keyboard Molly's mom promised me for my birthday (and we were only 6 months late). She is a lovely little bird, Arla is. And we did it. We went and got it on Wednesday, the same day Mohammed told me about Emed.

That was only wednesday! Four days! Four days and I live in an entirely new atmosphere.

Then there was the finance hard talk with my folks, dragged out over thurs and today (which has now become yesterday, it being 1:13, and my sunday of rest-- ha ha). Talked figures in and out. My father has made a spreadsheet. He wants to get it down on paper.

Mom has been tired -- almost too tired to speak. To love her is to be worried. I find the two in an inescapably equal ratio. Involvement means uncertainty, but she is seems to tired even to lean. Tired so that sleep is what she needs. I had a truely happy moment watching her sleep the day after the Youth Party. The Youth Party is has inexplicably been left out of the blog. A time for explaining, a time to refrain from explaning. But: a successfull party in my parent's apartment, which made my mom ultimately very happy, both to have had it and to have it done. And she slept. And she was beautiful and happy.

But that was all weeks ago, in a different season it seems. The weather is so wild in the city. So many different climates, different environments, different ecologies. The cave dweller Emed.

And, of course, Cyber Metal Tech, the workshop of Mr. Andy Hor.

Posted by Sam at May 4, 2003 01:20 AM

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