Over the 3 o’clock wall, as I call it, and I write to not only make the time go by faster but distract myself from the reflection off the hardwood floor. Even with as filthy as the bloody floor is, the reflection is sharp and true, piercing and downright rude to do so to a writer on his Friday that’s not a Friday. Outside, as alway, taunting me with how gorgeous it is, the postcard weather I always mention to tourists, how lucky we are to live here yet I’m trapped in an office. Or, more a cottage, as I’ve told you before. And, I bet a better 90% of working Americans or anyone in the world with an office wishes they had my view or one like it. I try to write faster then slow down, forget about the reflection then the sun moves just slightly to my right and the reflection’s all the more vicious. Ugh, WHY. Keep going, keep telling my story— What story? This isn’t a story. I’m at a desk, not wanting to work anymore but I do, make a couple calls then come back to my words in the Composition Book but now I elect keys. This is writer bullshit, total neurotic writerdom that he could escape from by going for a short walk but keeps himself in the chair, hoping he says something valuable or erudite, or teaches himself something. Well, I have— I have gems in the prior sentences, points of expansion and singular ideas and fruitful directions. I don’t need as much newness as I thought. Past 3PM, the clock toys with you at your desk, makes you think you’re almost there but in reality you might as well be at 9 or 9:30, still counting the minutes and watching the digital clock on your laptop or phone, watch or some other techie fashionable-of-late device.
Why do I obsess over time as I do? I feel my age the more I focus, the more I strain over the numbers and how they’re arranged, how the sun roars through that glass door and slingshots into my right retina, aggravating a writer and motivating him at the same time. I’m still at work, I know. And I need to make calls, I know. But I’m tired. And I’m disconnected somehow from this moment while being pulled further into it— Had to go for a walk and now I’m back. I should have stayed outside. Why am I in here, why am I writing— OH, the sun is further right, and not turning me into a blind typist. The day steers toward me, in my flavor and key, singing alongside me. Don’t stop, you’re almost there. If the day and its time tease you, just run past it. Run faster… Sprint! The keys elect and re-elect me for more paragraph mutiny. Somehow the unrest begets music, that I only can hold in here. So I stay in this chair and bob head to key punches, to sentences and whatever punctuation I’m in the mood for, or whatever’s fashionable. This really does feel like a cottage, a vacation— wait, I’m at work. What? Where’s my phone?