They’re putting a new roof on the probation office. Must be leaking somewhere, but I know it’s not rain.
Classic rock blares. Wind whips through the willows. Birds avoid this place. They know.
My hands shake from too much coffee and creamers of uncertainty.
My mind and body feel weak. I write but to no avail. Writing will not save me, let alone help me transcend. I have known this all along, but only admit it occasionally.
Sitting in the lobby, waiting. Roofing sounds above and terrible light rap coming from a man’s phone three chairs away from me.
But the rapper did use the good word “peruse” so perhaps there’s something in there. Rick Springfield once used the good word “moot” in a song, “Jesse’s Girl.” I want to tell her that I love her but the point is probably moot. I’ve been there on that mootness thing. Am I moot?
An elderly woman walks in wearing knee high leather boots with platform soles. She is rocking it hard. I almost stand up and applaud.
I have seen strange and beautiful fashion in this room. I’ve also seen people being cannibalized. That’s a staggering juxtaposition to observe. I am beginning to believe this cannot be conveyed through writing, at least not my writing. I don’t have the talent.
I hear they are looking for English teachers in Venezuela because all the teachers are leaving because they can’t afford to live there. That’s going to happen in certain urban areas in America. It already has. Who will teach then?
I see Netflix is going into education. Everything will be teacherless soon.
My spirit craves regular mindless work. Maybe I’ll get a job at Dollar General and meet Americans I’ve never met and write their mindful poems.
I took no notes today in the meeting. Nothing happened, except more of the same.