2004-09-07 - 4:38 p.m.
I was almost relieved, I have to be honest here, when I couldn't update because the servers were too busy.
This building I work in, voices are echoing down the halls about Rooney, about how he's dead as a doornail upstairs. A Queens accent shouts, "Whaddya mean dead?" A man's voice replies, "Dead. Police and all. Dead."
This is a large, ancient building, full of printing presses and people. The smell of ink is heavy in the air and I love it. The sounds of the presses are musical. On the way to work: Tegan and Sara. At work: the pumping of metal as paper scrolls through.
I don't know who Rooney is. Was. He's lucky to have gone here, in a place that people love. In a business that still means something.
So I sit five days a week, forty hours spanning those five days, and I listen to the metallic sounds. I type in measurements of pallets and skids. Cartons and publications. Responsibility.
A cat lives in the office down the hall. His name is Clyde and he visits frequently. He curls up behind me on the chair and sticks his nose in the pocket of my skirt.
His sister is called Bonnie.
Beyond this, I have been in love for a year. A rush of seasons until we are back at the first. How strange to think that you have been holding the same person's hand for two autumns in a row.
This is all, for now.
~j
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