CLEANING OUT MY WHOLE OFFICE!!!
So! As soon as I came around and saw everyone who was there (skeleton crew, as I noted in previous post), pretty much jawing and b.s.'ing, that is to say, catching up on workplace rapport-building, I took that as my license to say: "FUCK IT. Fuck what I came in today to do. I am doing something I should have done a long time ago. I am doing something there's no way I could easily do during a regular weekday. I'm pulling down the stacks. I'm dragging out the stuff-packed banker's boxes. I'm yanking pile after pile of files and reams of fossilized business and I am getting RESOLUTION on it.
New Year's coming up. You want resolution? TODAY, I AM ENGINEERING RESOLUTION.
Finding treasures to pick up on and run. Tossing dross that's been half-in my way and half-out-of-the-way, for far too long. Half of just about everything gets done by itself, I find - or by me, but without necessarily paying heed or mind to the files and papers trailing behind after the now unswollen, de-fevered previously hot, sick issue. I'm like a problem doctor, putting out (metaphorical) metabolic fires and getting disjointed joints popped back in; soothing sore heads and muscles (often a redundant distinction to draw) with the soft, cool, damp clean rag of my vocabulary; massaging roused ires and peaked pique back into place with a rough, vigorous laying on of hands and above and under all: the unwritten prescription of my own REVEALED SCIENCE! But as you can imagine with a character like that charging around, dispensing his own hard, sweet medicine as he sees damn FIT all the time left and right - with high standards and perfect discipline, sure! - but a bit behind, a bit lax on the paperwork aspect...it's excusable. It's to be expected. I mean, come on. Paperwork! That's what nurses are for for damn's sake.
Shut the fuck up, I am envisioning a male nurse. Christ, you people. How many times do I have to mention: committed feminist?
Okay, and now I'm envisioning a female nurse. Just for balance.
Ooo. The male nurse and the female nurse are kind of giving each other the eye. I think I better leave them to their rounds, shall I? Now where was I.
So, yes: before I got derailed on my extended medical metaphor/gender issues symposium, I was - HOLY SHIT!
Wow.
Those two nurses are totally going at it.
It's weird how the drabness of their olive-teal utilitarian uniforms provides heightened-eroticism-via-juxtaposition: duty and flesh. Can we judge them for yielding to this moment? These laborers in the halls of healing, surrounded each day by gifts of life, by science-derived miracle, but also hemmed in every moment by the grim spectre of decline, decay: inevitable death. Let us not judge them, for seizing the life that is theirs in their hands. Look at them. This is the full expression of that life - the primal and joyous driving principle of life. Life: to which they each wear themselves out in service. No sniggering or judgement, people please! This is natural, beautiful; not dirty.
Well, they're both totally all scrubbed and antiseptic, for one thing!
Anyway. I better go. More to do! I've already found like, 3 contracts, I could probably have closed out long ago by now! But shit - not my fault they're not 'priority,' now is it? Short answer: yes. True answer? A qualified 'fuck off.'
But I'll pick them up into proper priority order in the weeks to come, and they will forgive me with gratitute for any supposed lapse, I assure you. The grist for Monday's mill is growing TALL.
Next week?
Aw, man.
I expect to be able to catch so much up. Is anybody else even going to be in next week, in the business sense? We'll see, but whether or no I have to go it alone, it's going to be a high time for me to build insane amounts of pressure and momentum to unleash in the weeks following. In the New Year.
Okay. Break over. Back to pulling banker's boxers, sifting and shuffle-sorting each lovely pack of paper into the TOSS, RECYCLE or SHRED bin.
The shred bin's like...one of those big 30 gallon drums.
It's half full.
If your contract's in there, I'm sorry but I cannot apologize. Be comforted in my assurance that there's a very good reason for it."
1 comment:
In writing, your commitment to the piece, to the post, to the piece, is unequaled. It's got everything. It's a wonder you're not famous. Or maybe you are.
I love it. If I don't comment again, Happy New Year.
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