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New cell phone number: $10 fee, plus time and effort

Paycheck: $580

Effort to collect money for group lunch: more than it’s worth

Orchestrating said lunch, collecting the money (a mere $73 total) from the agents, lying to the manager, telling them that you can’t give the money to them because you have already ordered the sandwiches from a different store than was originally discussed, changing your cell phone number to avoid attendance sharks when you decide to skip town with the $73, lose your job, and forfeit your last paycheck (the pay period for which had just ended—checks sometime next week)—PRICELESS.

Just a reminder that little stories that bring some small measure of joy can be found all around us.

Silence Is Golden

Sometimes silence is just yellow.

Pithy has experienced the golden kind—at the end of a long, hot day with lots of people that expect smiles and handshakes—when head meets pillow in that sweet moment of renewal. The soft expulsion of pleasure is inevitable, and we smile just a little as the quiet lulls us to our dreams. Sometimes, it’s the easy silence shared by two friends—no expectations, no disappointments—just a companionable peace that reaffirms and secures. The muffled silence of first snow, when the world stills, caught in reverence for the simple miracles of life. Or when a room holds its breath as a loved one passes—the indecisive moment of silence when hope and longing meet in that final sigh.

Sometimes we find ourselves in the silence, we meet that version of who we want to be—the one that is too scared to face the critics and the pressures. We sit in the empty clarity and ask ourselves what comfort we find in all the noise.

But sometimes—sometimes silence is too empty, a reminder of our loneliness—that the indifferent quiet that held off sleep, mocking our efforts to let go—will be the same indifferent quiet that stares blankly at us when we awake. Sometimes the moments are too silent—just bearable enough for prayer.

Are We There Yet

The moment night groaned to morning in that awful, jarring disconnect devoid of all possible optimism, Pithy knew. Something was not right. Temporarily, we were content to blame the alarm’s negligence in allowing not one, not two, not even four, but six—yes, six!—snoozes (don’t worry, its employment has been terminated—the replacement will not cower so easily). However, upon leaving the house for work at an alarming speed, Pithy knew it was more than sleeping late. Indeed, all around were signs of notquiteright which slipped passed notice, but, upon reexamining at a later time, were painfully obvious: the day was counting up its birds and couldn’t get the answer right; Murphy’s daughter stayed out all night without checking in; Karma was cranky for an unmentionable reason—which wasn’t that hard to figure out.

Consequently, Pithy’s day was long—not I------I this long…but I--------------------------------------------------------I this long. We’ve all had those days when lunch felt like we should be clocking out to go home, but it’s not every day that morning “take 5” at seven thirty feels like lunch and nine o’clock’s “take 15” finds you biting back “K guys, cya later—gotta get home, I’m beat!” Today, Pithy was dazed and confused to find that clock-out came a full EIGHT hours after clock-in. Stranger still was the fact that they keenly felt as if the eight hours had actually transpired.

Death by PowerPoint, Microsoft’s “classic view” (note to Microsoft: there is nothing timeless about it—it’s UGLY. Get rid of it.), thermostats governed by a heating/cooling system in OREM (reminder: we’re in Cedar)—all these lend to foot tapping and count downs; when coupled with the human factor—hmmm, not entirely sure that’s 100% accurate—the venting of which would lead to HR inappropriate comments about people and their intelligence, and which Pithy will reserve to tell in person (but we will clue in that they involve words like retard and moron)—this day has been dubbed: Day Too Long. So let it be written. So let it be done….please!

Some Other Time

It’s summer. Well, at least school is out—and by school we refer to those institutions which recognize that scholastics should end as early in May as possible. Cedar refuses to acknowledge the inevitability of the sun. This week the flowers cowed under yet another layer of suffocating snow; the trees look more equipped for the last stages of autumn, afraid to open their foliage and be the dumb one that didn’t get the memo. We, being all green-aware (and by green we mean money), didn’t turn the heat on yesterday night (and by didn’t we mean forgot). This led to all sorts of unpleasantness with the toilet seat this morning, which in turn led to fasting and prayer for the overdue thawing.

Cold or otherwise—IT. IS. SUMMER. On this we will not negotiate. We have compiled (or at least started) the overly ambitious lists that characterize the golden months: we have one for cleaning, for reading, for eating, for not eating (still working on that one), for sleeping, for avoiding. Strangely, we do not have one for writing—yet, here we sit, postponing all our vital projects to address you, Internets. That’s right—feel special. Or don’t—after all, isn’t that what summer’s about? A compiled list of all the lists to be saved for later? There must be something to do in order to feel like we have accomplished the lazy perfection of ignoring responsibility.

Oh, we imagine some of it will get done—we will tackle the laundry eventually, in its cyclic time—like taxes and death. Real tasks, like paper revisions and Spanish practice, belong to August, when we can justify them because, “School starts next week.” For now, we reassure ourselves of summer’s presence, combating the cold with the comfort of some other time.

Space

It's easier to start with breathing

And empty space

I can do that; simple enough
Except for maybe tuberculosis with
Coughing and blood froth.

I don't have time for
this—Only for grades—
analyzing, quantifying
contextualize, mathmatecize
poetry. Grownups love
figures.

Poetry
is not for grownups.
It's for butterflies. Listen closely.
—closer—
To the
ta tum ta tum ta tum ta tum ta tum
of—their—wings.

Taskmastertomorrow gets the job done.
He patrols the aisle and looks
Over my shoulder. My thoughts smear like ink.
My whole life—waiting—for questions
—questions for which I have
prepared answers.
"love" I say "should be said more slowly."

The butterfly counts—
Not months—
But moments,
And has time enough.

Just Because

Litany

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.

Billy Collins

It's Complicated

Simply put, we overcomplicate. We all do. There seems to be a trendy sort of sophistication in complexity. Pithy likes trendy--clear up until they remembered their preference for the innocuous actual--(is that borderlining it?). The fact that no one understands you doesn't make you an artist. Over-analyzing can often lead to trouble.

This week bends our minds around paradoxes. Empty your mind--only then can you be filled. Education is gaining knowledge of your ignorance. Believe those who are seeking Truth--doubt those who advertise they have it. Mind pilates (that's pill-aht-ees Prudence ;-). While attractive super model minds do sound nice, we catch ourselves occasionally longing for yesterday's jumping jacks and soccer.

Don't get us wrong--we like our new words. Tarradiddle sounds good on a well-oiled tongue, but maybe we could just settle for "pretentious nonsense?" We like that we know the Chinese can't spell--that Toa Te Ching is actually said Dow Day Zzhing. That oughta be handy in saving us from some future embarrassment--some day when we need to look smart. But we find ourselves ready to bargain looking the part for the simple intersection of knowing what to do, how to do it, and the integrity to accomplish it.

After laughing at ourselves--or crying--or laughing so we don't cry--or meeting the concrete wall, we are ready to confess. Tom made peanut-butter pasta. It was weird and pasty and as perfectly awful as it sounds (no Kevin, peanut butter does not make everything taste better). Jerry burned the potatoes. The house smelled funny, and yes--he didn't realize they were burning and he checked the heater in his room first--on all fours, sniffing the floor. Things slip from our mouths and hover in the air long enough for us to realize how dumb they sounded--"I could mean so much more to you..."--and then we laugh and prefer the dumb words to what we actually meant. We stumble and oafishly manage, "That was deliberate." Funny thing is, it kinda was--the Universe's attempt to catch us at our blunders and help us realize that it's how you pick yourself up, not the fact that you tripped, that measures your smarts. It's not complicated. It's deliciously simple, and it satisfies.

A Letter

Dear Writer's Block,

We need to talk. Breaking up is hard to do, and it's always messy--but I can't keep living this lie. I still care about you, but I just don't feel the same way you do--I love you, but I'm not in love with you. Honestly, you're like a sister to me. I'm not ready for this kind of commitment--you want more than I'm prepared to give. We're both so young, I just can't think about forever. I think we would be better off friends.

It's not you it's me. It's how I don't seem to fit you anymore. I think I have potential to expand and try new avenues of creativity, but I feel stifled with you. We should see other people. I need more--I need to write. There are stories and poems and random thoughts that must be articulated. I can never belong to just one--especially one so possessive. I just can't do this anymore.

Please understand and don't feel bad. You have everything to live for--you're young and intelligent, but I have so much baggage.

To clarify any ambiguity in my message: I regret to inform you that, under a plan for the periodic removal of unpleasantness from my life, I must terminate our affair. You have no choice but to comply with the court orders unless you wish to face stalking charges. Should you persist, I will enter the witness protection program.

Love Always,

Writer.

Writing

Something weird happens when you sit down to write--not when you have something to say--but just because it's high time you got your act in gear and put words to page. You hope, as you blindly start, that the words will somehow magically flow--that it will take a dam to staunch the torrential flood of genius bursting forward. This is what you hope--yet, as you find yourself carefully constructing phrases and meticulously pouring over word choice, you realize that word fairies don't exist, and Wordsworth lied about Tinturn Abbey.

You complete your first paragraph--painfully you recognize it doesn't really accomplish anything. While there are words, they don't really say anything, and that's cheating. Panacea constitutional torturous enjoin atelier quotidian gesticulate nebbish onus torpor frangible--see? At this point you realize--time for a thesis, there's gotta be a focus. What?--there was that one guy singing with his headphones in about smoking guns and coming home that reminded you of that one time when the neighbor girls sang Kelly Clarkson with her headphones in and you wished she really would fall to pieces. Or how you wanted to use a specific line--"Could you two continue your petty bickering? I find it most intriguing." You could go deep and despondent and write from the place nobody else seems to get, but you remember you've done that a lot recently and it's starting to get a little old (besides making your mom wonder if you're "Ok"). Crap--you're rambling again.

You've tried your hand at being a pocket philosopher. Readers seemed to think that the wisdom of "don't be stupid" went without saying. A commentary on the lazy technique of the informal second-person used here and how its critical theory psychoanalysis ties of repression and distancing may lead to a deeper understanding of the speaker would probably bore internets. No good--you need the perfect subject...DAMN YOU Jim Gaffigan! I was totally going to say all that stuff about bacon...I mean you--lazy second-person technique you--you were going to say it.

Doubt starts to fester. Maybe you're not a writer. Maybe you should just give up...C'mon, who are you fooling anyways? Even Stephanie Meyers got published, and here you sit--a dwarfed, pathetic, husk of a writer--beaten out by sparkly vampires and prepubescent fantasies...not even worthy of touching a keyboard. Stop it! You tell yourself--it's just the bad demon angel that wears red and holds a fork and sits on your shoulder to get in distracting fights with the good angel talking. You're better than that. It'll come--your inspiration will hit, and there will be the ethereal column of light and the angel choirs and everything....

Caravans! That's it--the perfect thesis. Focused. Unusual. Camels are inherently funny/looking. There's the appeal of the exotic east; plus, hardly anybody knows anything about them so it's your word against theirs. Yes! Caravans...let's see, there's sand, and hot, and turbans....and....um, there's sand, and hot....and....uh....crap. That's a really bad idea isn't it? You don't know shit about caravans. Maybe you should take a break. Like...right now.

Title

We like to think that it's not that our lives are any less interesting. But, let's face it, sometimes you're just BLOCKED.