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Tuesday, May 21, 2002


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Journal Entry
Some sun this morning; still so chill. Looking forward the the Memorial Day weekend; a wedding and a Ohio visit on the agenda. Hopefully we will have more spring-like weather; we had terrible weather last year, if I remember correctly.

Words Worth Quoting
Treat all disasters as if they were trivialities but never treat a triviality as if it were a disaster. -- Quentin Crisp

And who is Quentin Crisp?
Visit Videoflicks.com to find out--a nice little bio of this "Flamboyant writer."

Classics
The Oven Bird by Robert Frost (1874-1963)

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.

[Spring, it seems to me, this is year, anyway, is dimished. -- ed. note]

Links, It's a web site, gotta have 'em
The Allen County Public Library is one of the best! Visit the web site at http://acpl.lib.in.us.

Work in Progess, Fourth Draft

Still working.

[Working Title] Twenty-three More Days

Not that I'm counting, no --
I just happened to reailize that
In twenty-three days, he's gone --
Retired, quit, out the door, good-bye.
It can't come too soon for me,
As perhaps you can tell,
Or for him either, it seems.

He's been the worst kind of bad boss,
I think. What he says, is
Not always what he means,
Or what he's thinking.
He kind of tells you
What you want to hear
At the moment. Then hits you
With the the truth
When you least expect it.

Sadly, I dont' think he's ever liked
His job. He's bored, for one, and full of
Resentment--too many people
Promoted over his head.
The thirty-odd years he's
Worked here hang heavy on him,
And he's ready to be gone.

While it's hard to feel sympathy
For one who's given me
So many bad moments,
Still I try. It must be hard
To work at a job you
Really don't like, and
Not truly understand why
You don't get the promotion,
The accolades, the satisfaction
Of succeeding.

I've contemplated quitting myself,
But what has kept me from it?
Laziness? It's hard to job-hunt.
Perserverance? Perhaps. Or
Perhaps I was not as bothered
By his negativity as I thought
I was. I may need a therapist
To figure that one out. But
I have remained, and will remain.

For in twenty-three days he is
An empty parking spot, a
Cleaned-out filing cabinet, a
Now-quiet corner of the office.

And I can fly.


Copyright © 2002 Cathy A. Dee, all rights reserved, no matter how bad it is. It may be getting there!

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