Thursday, May 16, 2002
Thank goodness, some sun this morning, despite a forecast of cloudy with showers...that will come later in the day, I'm sure. Indulged in watching the final episode of The Great Race 2 last night; I really shouldn't. I was glad the bickering separated couple did not win! I'm hoping to go see Attack of the Clones this weekend; we'll see if we can get in. But I'm not expecting much; reviews have been very mixed; Ebert is not overly fond of it; his comments were very specific as to its faults. Read a little Raymond Carver last night; he is a balm to the soul.
Work in Progess, Second Draft
This is a totally self-indulgent work; perhaps even a whiny one, but it was very liberating to write.
[Working Title] Twenty-three More Days
Not that I'm counting, no --
I just happened to remember 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.
I haven't liked him. He's been
The worst kind of bad boss.
The thirty-odd years he's
Worked here hang heavy on him,
And he's ready to be gone.
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.
But the thing I couldn't deal with
Is his dishonesty. Oh, there's
An avuncular how-ya-doin' friend
Mask he wears; but it's not the
Real him--cross him once, and
You'll find out. The true him comes
Slicing through, anger and snide remarks
And buried hurts revealed. That's
Really him. Don't kid yourself.
I've contemplated quitting myself,
Don't think I haven't--but instead
Withdrew, and gave less than
Perhaps I should have. No
Longer--if I can recover.
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. And it still is bad. What I want to work on is injecting some sympathy, some understanding, less vitriole. We'll see what tomorrow percolates.
Hap by Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
IF but some vengeful god would call to me
From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing,
Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy,
That thy love's loss is my hate's profiting!"
Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die,
Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited;
Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I
Had willed and meted me the tears I shed.
But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain,
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
--Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain,
And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan....
These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown
Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain.
Link for Today
Ann Morrow Lindbergh being one of my favorite authors, check out the family foundation: Lindbergh Foundation.