Saturday, December 13, 2003
"i could take risks...my attitude toward art is most open. it is totally unconservative - just freedom and willingness to work. i really walk on the edge...art and work and life are very connected and my whole life has been absurd...absurdity is the key word...it has to do with contradictions and oppositions. in the forms i use in my work the contradictions are certainly there. i was always aware that i should take order versus chaos, stringy versus mass, huge versus small, and i would try to find the most absurd opposites or extreme opposites...it was always more interesting than making something average, normal, right size, right proportion..."
~eva hesse
~eva hesse
Friday, December 12, 2003
DON'T FORGET TO TURN OUT THE LIGHTS
It was something I said
to God at the end
of the day—a cosmic in-joke,
an irreverant prayer.
I'd sometimes add an eclipse
of an A-men
to these words
and imagine God smiling
and winking at me
with his twilight eye.
It was something I said
to God at the end
of the day—a cosmic in-joke,
an irreverant prayer.
I'd sometimes add an eclipse
of an A-men
to these words
and imagine God smiling
and winking at me
with his twilight eye.
Don't Forget to Turn the Lights Out
Because your eyes won't see. They
won't want to see what I am about
to do.
I wouldn't want to offend you, no
not you.
Please shut those baby-blues and close
those tremulous cancers of brown.
I promise, you won't want to
see what I am about
to do.
Though you tremble and
though you fear
there's no need to see what
I hear.
Your tinted greens won't want
to see
a cadmium loss of wanton delight.
There is no need to know what I am about
to do.
There'll be no mistaking the
piercing of intent. For, How can you miss
what I am saying, do really want to see
what it is that I am about
to do
I promise, I won't offend your decrepit
hues
A knife in the gut, Me
I disembowel you
It's no different then
you killing me and Me
killing you.
I never meant for you to see,
just what it is that
I do
Because your eyes won't see. They
won't want to see what I am about
to do.
I wouldn't want to offend you, no
not you.
Please shut those baby-blues and close
those tremulous cancers of brown.
I promise, you won't want to
see what I am about
to do.
Though you tremble and
though you fear
there's no need to see what
I hear.
Your tinted greens won't want
to see
a cadmium loss of wanton delight.
There is no need to know what I am about
to do.
There'll be no mistaking the
piercing of intent. For, How can you miss
what I am saying, do really want to see
what it is that I am about
to do
I promise, I won't offend your decrepit
hues
A knife in the gut, Me
I disembowel you
It's no different then
you killing me and Me
killing you.
I never meant for you to see,
just what it is that
I do
today, the divorce becomes final.
after thirteen years, i've decided that it's time to say goodbye.
all paperwork will have been signed and by the time i return home tonight, we'll be apart.
forever.
it certainly wasn't for a lack of love or affection.
it was just that i needed a change. i needed something new. i need to begin a new chapter.
we've all been there.
and certainly, no one can accuse me of being unwilling to commit.
so i look toward my new relationship with hopeful eyes. where will you take me? what will i experience with you? will i change, somehow?
yes...i'm ready to begin my new journey with my new love.
they say that you never quite get over your first love. and that no loves after that will ever quite compare with the first. and i believe them.
goodbye, my beloved honda. i will miss you.
after thirteen years, i've decided that it's time to say goodbye.
all paperwork will have been signed and by the time i return home tonight, we'll be apart.
forever.
it certainly wasn't for a lack of love or affection.
it was just that i needed a change. i needed something new. i need to begin a new chapter.
we've all been there.
and certainly, no one can accuse me of being unwilling to commit.
so i look toward my new relationship with hopeful eyes. where will you take me? what will i experience with you? will i change, somehow?
yes...i'm ready to begin my new journey with my new love.
they say that you never quite get over your first love. and that no loves after that will ever quite compare with the first. and i believe them.
goodbye, my beloved honda. i will miss you.
Thursday, December 11, 2003
mr. clarence oddbody:
i believe that we have, indeed, risen to the occasion and provided you with ample proof that we are committed to satisfying your poetic whims [perhaps one more than the other but that's subjective, anyway].
as i'm next in line for providing a title from which to skirt around, i've decided to do not only just that but to also give you a one day deadline of friday at 5pm to cough up some brilliance [or idiocy...whichever you prefer].
the title which you are to work from is as follows:
don't forget to turn out the lights
i trust that i will be able to bask in the glow of your collective works by 5pm tomorrow. god speed.
bonne chance,
garance clavel
i believe that we have, indeed, risen to the occasion and provided you with ample proof that we are committed to satisfying your poetic whims [perhaps one more than the other but that's subjective, anyway].
as i'm next in line for providing a title from which to skirt around, i've decided to do not only just that but to also give you a one day deadline of friday at 5pm to cough up some brilliance [or idiocy...whichever you prefer].
the title which you are to work from is as follows:
don't forget to turn out the lights
i trust that i will be able to bask in the glow of your collective works by 5pm tomorrow. god speed.
bonne chance,
garance clavel
Before I Build My Castle
Devise and rise I shall
with a most lovely of a loving
iron fist. Adore me my pretties,
your King loves you. Your King
needs you. Your servitude shines.
you there, my serfs. The old and the
new. Has beens and have nots, those that are
yet to be. The neophytes too, are precious in the
King's eyes. Do not fret, your King loves you and
would not burden your backs beyond what
benefits me. Till and toil, you'll work in the
soil. Toil and till, through the metallic
rill. Open your homely hearts to the
graces of the kingdom. It starts
with you, your words. From start
to finish, cover to cover, from
A to Z. And verbs in between.
On color cloth-boarded backs.
My walls of fallated wisom.
Built by you, my pretties
Devise and rise I shall
with a most lovely of a loving
iron fist. Adore me my pretties,
your King loves you. Your King
needs you. Your servitude shines.
you there, my serfs. The old and the
new. Has beens and have nots, those that are
yet to be. The neophytes too, are precious in the
King's eyes. Do not fret, your King loves you and
would not burden your backs beyond what
benefits me. Till and toil, you'll work in the
soil. Toil and till, through the metallic
rill. Open your homely hearts to the
graces of the kingdom. It starts
with you, your words. From start
to finish, cover to cover, from
A to Z. And verbs in between.
On color cloth-boarded backs.
My walls of fallated wisom.
Built by you, my pretties
Wednesday, December 10, 2003
before i build my castle
thwack thwack thwack
go the flip flops as they hit my heels while i walk across the street
i plunk down the yellow plastic chair
and push it until it sinks into the sand
i unfurl my multicolored terrycloth blanket
and shake out any remnants of last time
the coppertone comes out of the bag
i smear it over my arms, legs and belly
reveling in the smell of summertime
the seagulls are all facing in the same direction
toward the sun
and i follow their lead
but i know the real reason that i came here
and in a few minutes
i will begin
disclaimer: this so-called poem was written without editing immediately after arriving home after sitting in traffic on route 78 for more than three hours with nothing more than a halloween-sized box of DOTS to eat. as i've said before....be kind.
thwack thwack thwack
go the flip flops as they hit my heels while i walk across the street
i plunk down the yellow plastic chair
and push it until it sinks into the sand
i unfurl my multicolored terrycloth blanket
and shake out any remnants of last time
the coppertone comes out of the bag
i smear it over my arms, legs and belly
reveling in the smell of summertime
the seagulls are all facing in the same direction
toward the sun
and i follow their lead
but i know the real reason that i came here
and in a few minutes
i will begin
disclaimer: this so-called poem was written without editing immediately after arriving home after sitting in traffic on route 78 for more than three hours with nothing more than a halloween-sized box of DOTS to eat. as i've said before....be kind.
lovely, all. but allow me to jazz things up a bit. just a bit, honest. my wal-mart poem was just one of several composed as a result of this quaint yet motivating little game i invented oh so many moons ago. there aren't many rules and it's even simpler than Lie Detector which, i suspect, assuages alison's confusion not at all.
it works like this: i make up a title, and you (ali, luke, invisi-malec?) make up a poem. that's it. but then ali will choose a title and luke and i will compose. so on and so on.
you knew i didn't make that wal-mart title up by myself, right? "he would've certainly chosen Target," ali thought. another friend offered the title "taking stock of umbrellas," and this is what i wrote:
FOR A RAINY DAY (or TAKING STOCK OF UMBRELLAS)
No tacky tartan plaid
bursting into a perfect
Burberry bubble over
my head. No alternating
panels of suburban
blue and white sheltering
me from the golfball sky.
Just a small black angel
hovering above me, stretching
its wings to keep me
only almost dry.
and yet another friend ante'd up with "being right-handed," and this was the result:
BEING RIGHT-HANDED
It was on the fourth
of December, with the trembling
right hand of majorities, that I claimed
my birth rite with a ghost-like tug
on some doctor's haunted finger. I was given
no choice really, mastery over mystery.
So today I type this with my left hand
and pretend that someone will notice
the difference.
i know what you're thinking ali, "more fun than book club in a male strip joint!" and i know what you're thinking too, luke: "softball season is just 4 short months away."
so, i expect your results by friday at 5. here's your title:
"BEFORE I BUILD MY CASTLE"
go!
it works like this: i make up a title, and you (ali, luke, invisi-malec?) make up a poem. that's it. but then ali will choose a title and luke and i will compose. so on and so on.
you knew i didn't make that wal-mart title up by myself, right? "he would've certainly chosen Target," ali thought. another friend offered the title "taking stock of umbrellas," and this is what i wrote:
FOR A RAINY DAY (or TAKING STOCK OF UMBRELLAS)
No tacky tartan plaid
bursting into a perfect
Burberry bubble over
my head. No alternating
panels of suburban
blue and white sheltering
me from the golfball sky.
Just a small black angel
hovering above me, stretching
its wings to keep me
only almost dry.
and yet another friend ante'd up with "being right-handed," and this was the result:
BEING RIGHT-HANDED
It was on the fourth
of December, with the trembling
right hand of majorities, that I claimed
my birth rite with a ghost-like tug
on some doctor's haunted finger. I was given
no choice really, mastery over mystery.
So today I type this with my left hand
and pretend that someone will notice
the difference.
i know what you're thinking ali, "more fun than book club in a male strip joint!" and i know what you're thinking too, luke: "softball season is just 4 short months away."
so, i expect your results by friday at 5. here's your title:
"BEFORE I BUILD MY CASTLE"
go!
memo from the vice president of the 'beyond amazing' book club and blog:
dear fellow members,
i am as pleased as punch to say that, after a mere six days of our blog's existence, it seems to be shaping up quite nicely. to be more precise in my wording: i'm stoked! yes, i understand that i blog more than anyone here but that said, i'm becoming more and more comfortable with writing whatever i feel like writing, lame or decent or otherwise. and i love reading your entries and listening to your audioblogs. it's fucking excellent. i have high hopes for our blog...
that said, i have two administrative tasks with which to cover. the first is that i ask that all of you keep the audioblog number/instructions somewhere as i'm going to delete that entry from the blog since, after all, this is a public blog and i don't want my phone number whizzing around the universe. the second is that i want to check that the 18th is still our next meeting for the book club...the cellar again? that seemed like a good spot.
i'm going to try and see if i can finegle [sp?] the powers that be to switch my image uploading abilities from my secret blog to this blog since i know that at least two of us would love to post photos. i'll let you know what happens with that.
thanks again for participating with this...i find it all very exciting...
your faithful servant,
garance clavel AKA a.m.t. AKA mastser of the universe
dear fellow members,
i am as pleased as punch to say that, after a mere six days of our blog's existence, it seems to be shaping up quite nicely. to be more precise in my wording: i'm stoked! yes, i understand that i blog more than anyone here but that said, i'm becoming more and more comfortable with writing whatever i feel like writing, lame or decent or otherwise. and i love reading your entries and listening to your audioblogs. it's fucking excellent. i have high hopes for our blog...
that said, i have two administrative tasks with which to cover. the first is that i ask that all of you keep the audioblog number/instructions somewhere as i'm going to delete that entry from the blog since, after all, this is a public blog and i don't want my phone number whizzing around the universe. the second is that i want to check that the 18th is still our next meeting for the book club...the cellar again? that seemed like a good spot.
i'm going to try and see if i can finegle [sp?] the powers that be to switch my image uploading abilities from my secret blog to this blog since i know that at least two of us would love to post photos. i'll let you know what happens with that.
thanks again for participating with this...i find it all very exciting...
your faithful servant,
garance clavel AKA a.m.t. AKA mastser of the universe
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
None of us are really sure how she even got here and, considering that she can no longer speak, it's fairly clear that we never will.
This is what we do know...
She was born in Germany approximately 77 years ago. We know nothing of her childhood except that she survived the Russian occupation and later married a displaced Russian soldier.
At the age of eighteen, she was a photographer's assistant and was present during the Nuremburg trials. God only knows what she heard and saw during the trials. Photographs of unspeakable things which, correctly, she never spoke of, even while she was still able to speak.
Somehow, and for unknown reasons, her marriage was annulled and she wound up in America. And that's where she met Raymond. Again, no one is quite sure about how they even met. But they did, and he courted her, and they married.
Raymond's mother didn't like her. She was always saying things like, "There's just something not quite right about her."
But Raymond didn't listen, being bullheaded, and married her anyway. After all, he wasn't the type that the girls were after. He was extremely tall and lumbering and had a fascination with Jackie Gleason. So much of a fascination that, before joining the police,
he actually became a bus driver and spoke and acted just like Ralph Kramden. Go figure.
Not exactly a catch, I suppose.
I remember her at family parties. Quiet but pleasant enough. I was just a kid and she seemed harmless and rather fascinating with her thick German accent and odd mannerisms.
But then she started to change. She was convinced that people were whispering things about her. "Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said? He called me a German lizzie."
After a number of years, we didn't see her anymore. She stopped coming to all family functions and Mom told me that she never left the apartment. Ever. And so it went. Until a few years ago.
She suffered a stroke and something in her brain changed and, out of nowhere, she was venturing out into the world again. Granted, there was a price to pay: she could no longer speak nor write. But still, she had Raymond and they could go for walks around their dingy Newark neighborhood and stroll the supermarket aisles together. That was something.
And now she is alone. A foreigner who can speak neither her native tongue nor any other tongue. A woman who cannot sign a check. A woman who is now facing her greatest fear.
And they still haven't found his last will and testament.
This is what we do know...
She was born in Germany approximately 77 years ago. We know nothing of her childhood except that she survived the Russian occupation and later married a displaced Russian soldier.
At the age of eighteen, she was a photographer's assistant and was present during the Nuremburg trials. God only knows what she heard and saw during the trials. Photographs of unspeakable things which, correctly, she never spoke of, even while she was still able to speak.
Somehow, and for unknown reasons, her marriage was annulled and she wound up in America. And that's where she met Raymond. Again, no one is quite sure about how they even met. But they did, and he courted her, and they married.
Raymond's mother didn't like her. She was always saying things like, "There's just something not quite right about her."
But Raymond didn't listen, being bullheaded, and married her anyway. After all, he wasn't the type that the girls were after. He was extremely tall and lumbering and had a fascination with Jackie Gleason. So much of a fascination that, before joining the police,
he actually became a bus driver and spoke and acted just like Ralph Kramden. Go figure.
Not exactly a catch, I suppose.
I remember her at family parties. Quiet but pleasant enough. I was just a kid and she seemed harmless and rather fascinating with her thick German accent and odd mannerisms.
But then she started to change. She was convinced that people were whispering things about her. "Did you hear him? Did you hear what he said? He called me a German lizzie."
After a number of years, we didn't see her anymore. She stopped coming to all family functions and Mom told me that she never left the apartment. Ever. And so it went. Until a few years ago.
She suffered a stroke and something in her brain changed and, out of nowhere, she was venturing out into the world again. Granted, there was a price to pay: she could no longer speak nor write. But still, she had Raymond and they could go for walks around their dingy Newark neighborhood and stroll the supermarket aisles together. That was something.
And now she is alone. A foreigner who can speak neither her native tongue nor any other tongue. A woman who cannot sign a check. A woman who is now facing her greatest fear.
And they still haven't found his last will and testament.
Tress, those useless trees...
Everything that we esteem some sort of value or reverence upon is at the mercy of our subjective values of self. Those lowly common-place objects can just as easily be escalated to a pedastal when its context aligns to that of our eyes.
I was blessed with the phantasmagorical tapestry of snow encrusted trees hurtling past my train window as I made my daily NJT commute home form work on Friday, when my starry eyed consciousness caught up with the rest of my rationale. Just yesterday, yes, a mere twenty-four hours prior, these very same limbs that I am so honorably adoring at this moment, were naked and nothing but a reminder of decaying life. Heap some fluffy crystallized white on their outstretched digits, and presto chango! We have something of the sublime. Something of the fantastical that draws upon every notion of childhood fairytales that have peppered our journey from young to old. Adorn these same branches with budding greens of chlorophyll, and that too, is more to our liking then the claw-like tributaries breaching the greying sky outside my ofice window.
Phone calls from friends. Their ringing shatters the peace of our safe haven of self-prescribed solitude. It's annoyance and inconvenience. But, by God, the terror of neglect that is sure to set in when our only breathing wish is for that cursed phone to be our winged savior, to ring, to distract us from the very same self-induced hell. Our solitude and self-maintenance, our isolation and loneliness. Our heaven and our hell. Our snow-capped limbs of skewed perspective.
Everything that we esteem some sort of value or reverence upon is at the mercy of our subjective values of self. Those lowly common-place objects can just as easily be escalated to a pedastal when its context aligns to that of our eyes.
I was blessed with the phantasmagorical tapestry of snow encrusted trees hurtling past my train window as I made my daily NJT commute home form work on Friday, when my starry eyed consciousness caught up with the rest of my rationale. Just yesterday, yes, a mere twenty-four hours prior, these very same limbs that I am so honorably adoring at this moment, were naked and nothing but a reminder of decaying life. Heap some fluffy crystallized white on their outstretched digits, and presto chango! We have something of the sublime. Something of the fantastical that draws upon every notion of childhood fairytales that have peppered our journey from young to old. Adorn these same branches with budding greens of chlorophyll, and that too, is more to our liking then the claw-like tributaries breaching the greying sky outside my ofice window.
Phone calls from friends. Their ringing shatters the peace of our safe haven of self-prescribed solitude. It's annoyance and inconvenience. But, by God, the terror of neglect that is sure to set in when our only breathing wish is for that cursed phone to be our winged savior, to ring, to distract us from the very same self-induced hell. Our solitude and self-maintenance, our isolation and loneliness. Our heaven and our hell. Our snow-capped limbs of skewed perspective.
non-creative entry > > > > >
not sure what happened to your post yesterday. i just came on to post something now and saw your post, below, but it wasn't on the actual blog yet. so i clicked 'post & publish' and it's now on the blog.
after you click 'post & publish', make sure that you see 'publish successful' at the lower right of the window before moving out of the edit window. if all else fails, don't remove your post because i might still be able to see it in the edit window. if i can, i can try to post it later in the day.
not sure what happened to your post yesterday. i just came on to post something now and saw your post, below, but it wasn't on the actual blog yet. so i clicked 'post & publish' and it's now on the blog.
after you click 'post & publish', make sure that you see 'publish successful' at the lower right of the window before moving out of the edit window. if all else fails, don't remove your post because i might still be able to see it in the edit window. if i can, i can try to post it later in the day.
Monday, December 08, 2003
OK, so I just attempted to post something, but as goes me and technology, it appears my effort was all for naught. I finally find a moment to have a thought. I make the decision that I am going to transcribe it via these cursed keys. I Indulge in desired transcription. I find a glimmer of satisfaction from said transcription. I mouse click the prescribed post & publish. Nothing happens. Or perhaps it did happen and I am just not aware of it yet. Regardless, I feel as though my effort wre in vain. I am frustrated...
Sunday, December 07, 2003
mersault999: what are you doing?
jjamiee: I just got home
mersault999: tell me what you did
jjamiee: went to see sylvia
mersault999: who's sylvia?
jjamiee: the movie
mersault999: oh
jjamiee: duh
mersault999: how did you like it? I heard it wasn't that good
jjamiee: It was good. Depressing
mersault999: i'll see it then. if it's depressing, i'll like it
jjamiee: it was nice to look at too
mersault999: did you go alone?
jjamiee: yes
mersault999: did you pull your pants down in the movie theater?
jjamiee: of course
jjamiee: to Gwenny
mersault999: an homage to gwyneth paltrow
jjamiee: she was nekkid in it
mersault999: how nekkid?
mersault999: did you see her boobs?
mersault999: ass?
mersault999: tell me!
jjamiee: everything but the patch
jjamiee: nice bod
mersault999: does she have nice nips?
jjamiee: yes
mersault999: are you sure it wasn't a body double?
mersault999: a nip double?
jjamiee: yeah. There was a well lit long shot. It was her.
mersault999: okay, i've gotta see it just to see her nips
jjamiee: no nip close ups.
mersault999: damn
jjamiee: But nips none-the-less.
mersault999: did you eat popcorn?
jjamiee: no
mersault999: any snacks? a soda?
jjamiee: nothing
jjamiee: the lady's perfume in front of me made me feel sick
mersault999: oh, i hate that
jjamiee: i spent the whole movie with my hat covering my nose.
jjamiee: except when i pulled my pants down.
jjamiee: I just got home
mersault999: tell me what you did
jjamiee: went to see sylvia
mersault999: who's sylvia?
jjamiee: the movie
mersault999: oh
jjamiee: duh
mersault999: how did you like it? I heard it wasn't that good
jjamiee: It was good. Depressing
mersault999: i'll see it then. if it's depressing, i'll like it
jjamiee: it was nice to look at too
mersault999: did you go alone?
jjamiee: yes
mersault999: did you pull your pants down in the movie theater?
jjamiee: of course
jjamiee: to Gwenny
mersault999: an homage to gwyneth paltrow
jjamiee: she was nekkid in it
mersault999: how nekkid?
mersault999: did you see her boobs?
mersault999: ass?
mersault999: tell me!
jjamiee: everything but the patch
jjamiee: nice bod
mersault999: does she have nice nips?
jjamiee: yes
mersault999: are you sure it wasn't a body double?
mersault999: a nip double?
jjamiee: yeah. There was a well lit long shot. It was her.
mersault999: okay, i've gotta see it just to see her nips
jjamiee: no nip close ups.
mersault999: damn
jjamiee: But nips none-the-less.
mersault999: did you eat popcorn?
jjamiee: no
mersault999: any snacks? a soda?
jjamiee: nothing
jjamiee: the lady's perfume in front of me made me feel sick
mersault999: oh, i hate that
jjamiee: i spent the whole movie with my hat covering my nose.
jjamiee: except when i pulled my pants down.
Inside Dendrite on an Unsnowy Sunday Evening
The clock reads 5:38pm and I have just asked my cubemate, Sandeep, if he knows about the Myth of Sisyphus. He is from India, so I'm unsure if he'll be familiar with it and he's not. I explain to him how, in a nutshell, Sisyphus is condemned for all eternity to keep pushing an enormous rock up a steep hill, only to have the rock fall back to the bottom upon reaching the top. And Sisyphus must plod on, incessantly, for all eternity.
I explained to Sandeep that, lately, I feel like Sisyphus and I find myself constantly thinking about Sisyphus. Reading little snippets of Camus' book and just general thoughts about the whole concept. He said something indecipherable to me and we both laughed. But I think he understood what I was getting at.
What are we doing here on a Sunday night? Why have we been here all day? My eyes are blurry and my mind has turned into mush. I feel myself aging exponentially and I'm beginning to think that this is it: this is my life, for all eternity.
And so what if it is? What if it is, truly, my lot to be lonely and overworked and never quite reaching the point that I think I want to reach? Well...if that is my lot then there's nothing to be done about it, I suppose. Yet, it's an awful thought. One that makes me want to burst into tears, right in front of Sandeep, and pray that he will instill some ancient wisdom upon me and my tears will dry and I will walk out of here feeling refreshed.
Sandeep is busy fixing software bugs. I hear him clicking and typing and he, too, is exhausted. If he's got any wisdom to impart, it won't be shared tonight.
The clock reads 5:38pm and I have just asked my cubemate, Sandeep, if he knows about the Myth of Sisyphus. He is from India, so I'm unsure if he'll be familiar with it and he's not. I explain to him how, in a nutshell, Sisyphus is condemned for all eternity to keep pushing an enormous rock up a steep hill, only to have the rock fall back to the bottom upon reaching the top. And Sisyphus must plod on, incessantly, for all eternity.
I explained to Sandeep that, lately, I feel like Sisyphus and I find myself constantly thinking about Sisyphus. Reading little snippets of Camus' book and just general thoughts about the whole concept. He said something indecipherable to me and we both laughed. But I think he understood what I was getting at.
What are we doing here on a Sunday night? Why have we been here all day? My eyes are blurry and my mind has turned into mush. I feel myself aging exponentially and I'm beginning to think that this is it: this is my life, for all eternity.
And so what if it is? What if it is, truly, my lot to be lonely and overworked and never quite reaching the point that I think I want to reach? Well...if that is my lot then there's nothing to be done about it, I suppose. Yet, it's an awful thought. One that makes me want to burst into tears, right in front of Sandeep, and pray that he will instill some ancient wisdom upon me and my tears will dry and I will walk out of here feeling refreshed.
Sandeep is busy fixing software bugs. I hear him clicking and typing and he, too, is exhausted. If he's got any wisdom to impart, it won't be shared tonight.
