Two Days for the Price of One Post

Another day of skulking around the maze of cubicles hoping someone doesn't ask me what I'm supposed to be doing. I played a super fun game on addictinggames.com for a while. And then, trouble. Apparently they can't find my security clearance from my old job to reestablish it. Embarassing questions got asked, questioning my competency and reliability and job status.

Well, not really, but it felt that way. I felt like even more of a fraud; like I had lied my way into this boring place just to steal state secrets. So I had to fill out bunches of paper work accounting for my past 7 years.

Resumed 8/29/07
It is in these moments, when I am filling out resumes or school applications that I am made aware of just how sporatic and unregimented my life is. I tend to think of myself as organized and liking schedules, knowing where the plan leads to. But when I look back and see 3 different colleges, 15 jobs, 2 cities and countless missing phone numbers, addresses or supervisors' names trailing after me that I realize just how impulsive this life of mine is. I always make decisions impulsively. I tend to want to gather the data but then end up just throwing it into a corner and running at the situation with my head down. I think it yields interesting results and stories but might look a little too colorful for this cubicle. It's a bit outside their color scheme. I'm afraid I'll be a bit too outside this color scheme too. Yesterday when I left here I felt physically ill. I think I'm just not used to this sort of schedule, but it's also my fears creeping out and affecting me. I need to remember more often that I have done quite a lot, and know quite a lot more than people give me credit for. I went to Kenya by myself, I visited London all alone. I got an internship working in Robert DeNiro's production company, and moved to New York all alone. I can do anything I want (and I don't just mean that in a girl power sort of way. I'm pretty self suficient.) Just because these people don't know what I'm capable of doesn't mean I have to feel intimidated by beige walls and button down shirts.

In response to Smith Mag's six word memoirs I came up with this minute autobiography: Exuberant families breed stories from messes. That, in turn, led to this poem (which is still a work in progress):


Exhuberance oozes out of them

like oil; rich, smelling of sun, necessary.

From this force of relatives and friends

Messes are beget on the kitchen counters,

in the living room, and bathroom sinks.

They trickle onto the sidewalks

where neighbors gather gossip,

leak out through phone lines,

and on voices carried past the pines.

Slowly, after tears and roars- of laughter fade,

the messes emerge from chrysalis as stories.

And the stories creep back in to fill up the house.

Breeding among the late night dishes in the sink

and bottles left on the back porch,

events catalogued like colorful beads,

from conversations continued long into the night;

they take up their place alongside the silent spiders

and remain; the friendly ghosts of the family.