Monday, May 20, 2002
Furnace on all weekend, what a depressing sound. A few peeks of sun between lots of clouds and a few showers. Seemed like a fall weekend, should have been going to football instead of baseball.
The Words of Others
Creativity can solve almost any problem. The creative act, the defeat of habit by orginality, overcomes everything. -- George Lois
Can't help but wonder, just who IS George Lois?
Link for Today
Now here's a silly one, but fun: iwon.com. Rack up points for daily, weekly, monthly and yearly prizes, news and weather, shopping, games, a little of everything. I like their "thank you" prizes--first aid kits, votive candle holders, software, more for only $4.95 with NO S&H.
Nothing puts a spin on a Monday quite like a good poem.
The world is too much with us by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune,
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
Very much a poem for a Y2K+ world, don't you think?
Work in Progess, Third Draft
Can something be made of such screed? We'll see.
[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.
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 tell you
What you want to hear
At the Moment. Then hits you
With the the truth
When you least expect it.
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
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.