Today was one of the more brutal slogs in recent memory; I got into the office at nine, was in meetings almost all day, and ended up staying in the office until almost nine p.m. Part of that was fun--I'm now reunited w/Gyre, who was on the same team as me two years ago, and when we switch buildings, we're going to be sharing a corner office. Yes, my friends, I have achieved the corner office. Granted, this was through coin-flip rather than promotion, but still. Now that I have achieved so much, it's clear that I should go to business school and try to make CEO by age 30.
After work, I came home, made cookies, and opened the door when Terry knocked. Her internet was out in her apartment, and so she came over so that she could keep working. Clearly she is in even worse shape than I am...I took a whole 1.5-hour break, while she just went home, showered, and came over to work, and was probably in the office before I was. Little does she know that I'm about to tell her that I'm going to go to bed. I have a mandatory meeting at 8:30 tomorrow that I can't be late for; then, there's this management thing for two and a half hours that I'm completely unprepared for (since I found out tonight at five p.m. that I had to go to it) with the VP of our department. Ugh. I'm just going to dress nicely and keep my mouth shut. Now, it's time for me to sleep!
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Jean Bleakney
THE FAIRYTALE LAND OF UM
Between the supercilious litany of ultra
and the negative hordes of un
is the magical realism of Um.
Complete with a sense of journey
(from the...um... hesitant opening
to the self-assurance of umpteen);
and sense of place - Central Italy
with its earth of red-brown oxides
and good-versus-evil flora of cow parsley,
angelica, sweet cicely, hemlock and giant hogweed
whose umbel flower parts are spoked and rayed
as umbrellas. Rain is assumed... or sun.
So is conflict: visors, shields, and umiaks
(open boats crewed by Inuit women)
not to mention slaughtered deer and umble pie.
Eclipsed, in minor roles, the umpire
and that German vowel modifier.
Not so, the flapping, stork-like umbrette:
a roc of a bird and in the wrong continent.
Not so, that lacy-leafed jungle of umbellifers
adumbrating each other’s flat-topped inflorescenses,
in whose shadowy undergrowth squats umbrage,
that navel-gazing familiar:
umbrage, the giving and taking of it.
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