…and I’m at the library again. Susie has today and tomorrow off from school, so she slept late and wore non-uniform clothes all day. I had a rough morning because some files I was responsible for were mistracked at work and it was thought I had them. I went to work on another project, because that is the best way to make something appear: stop actively looking for it. How many vanished wallets, keys, books, and jewelry I have found that way, I’ve lost track. But I heard no more about these files the rest of the day, so I’m assuming that all’s well that ends well.
A side benefit of this panic is my desk surface is neater than it has been for months. I am the only one on the fifth floor who boasts a cubicle library (it runs the gamut from Tolstoi to Leaves of Grass to James A. Michener and Stephen King. It’s not organized–The Forrestal Diaries are alongside the poetry of Charles Bukowski, which is flanked on the other side by the Bible), and I often strew my papers–work-related or not–over every flat surface. So, while they may not have found the files (I am still not clear on that), I did do some housekeeping.
What has always frustrated my supervisors is their endless hand-wringing about the clutter in there. Yet when they need me to give them a file or paper, I can usually locate and hand it to them in less than five seconds. They argue they may not be able to find work in there on days I’m absent.
I’m not too sympathetic. I am in that department 40 hours per week. When I am there, that cubicle is my house, my sanctuary, and I take as kindly to people strolling in it and getting things as I would in my own residence.
(I thought it might become my house. When I thought Steph and I were going to split, I was going to squat there until I found a place. Floor is carpeted, I’m an employee (which meant I could go in and out of the building 24/7), I could shower at the Y and keep clothes there. I’m not all that tall, so I could stretch out on the floor in relative comfort, and pray a security guard didn’t come by the fifth floor on his rounds.)
Steph has choir practice tonight, so Susie and I have Crock-Pot soup awaiting us, and after Susie hits the sack, it’ll be my ‘n’ my typewriter, I hope, until Steph returns around 11 p.m. I’ll probably have to apply another dose of Greased Lightning to the typewriter before I start working, unless I want a night of aggravation.
I have been semi-creative today. During break, I finished a poem in my Mead Square Deal “Marble Memo” breast-pocket notebook (4.5″ x 3.25″). Whether I’ll type it up and try to send it to someone is another story.