work

Sometimes at work when I'm given a rather open-ended project, I find myself staring out the window for long stretches. There's some kind of pretty maple tree that tosses its branches like a pony tosses its head when it's windy. A lot of cars drive by on 9th Street, sometimes police cars. Whenever someone walks by my desk, I pick up a piece of paper and act like I was in the middle of reading a document. Mostly I think about fucking.
I miss being in class this week already, in spite of the hassle. I miss the long quiet stretches of not-at-home time; when it's not possible to deal with your life as you could if you were at home, and you are somewhat trapped in this state of depressurized thought-floating. Home becomes too familiar at times, and requires that you look at the facts of yourself. Home crystallizes one's relationship with oneself. This is not to say Home is a place of frequent ill feeling, not at all.

Sometimes I feel as though I work for an elephant in a suit, all ponderous thought and movement and sometimes indecipherable reasoning, trunk/hands swaying in front of him.
"This is just elephant logic," I'll say to myself, writing down and performing a task I don't understand. It makes things easier, to imagine a valiant attempt at inter-species communication.