My smile slapped on too quickly. This is what danger feels like.
To save my grace I will claim the sky. The crash as my saviour and alibi. Otherwise I don’t know if I could respect myself in the morning.
It’s interesting to see how the various people I know are going about New York with thier press passes. William and Kyle Cassidy in particular. I would like to see them hook up. Join forces, as it were, and unleash journalistic doom upon thine enemies. Maybe it’s because I’m stuck in this bloody room with Nice People. Current conversation topic: sport celebrity wives.
edit: Home again in my own little box, in my own little chair. I got out early because I couldn’t lock up. They covered for me as I rushed back. Who knew I could like it here?
So it seems Kidzworld has a pet seagull named Arthur. The fact this seems fascinating attests to the sheer weight of the boredom inherant in this job. When I’m not being an educator I tend to wish quite a few of them to meager lives full of fast food jobs and walmart style. There is thunder rolling outside like an old theatre sheet shaken backstage. Someone in whitefaced costume standing on a box to wobble the metal into rain. The sound crawls across the sky on shattered thumbtack knees, begging to kill us all. My eyes catch thier breath at the depth of it. It pulls at me, down through my throat to the core. Breathing it in without thought involved. Nothing I can do changes my reaction.
I want to be on a hill under the sky. Stand next to me, this is green grass. Face me and take this that I offer. Hard and the rain falling. Tongues, teeth, urgency calling. Beware me when the lightning hits.
I’ve been left alone in the office. This has so many possibilities yet I forgot to load my bookmarks up on-line.
The children are vociferously arguing the merits of Avril Lavinge VS Hillary Duff.
I may have just accidently landed myself in Purgatory.
Today is my first day of work in the office. Gray light in a gray room talking to the children. I’m not the same cloth as the other employees. It occurs to me that listening to Clint Mansell before going is maybe not the best of ideas. The music tears into me, demanding that I dress in flowing black and set my hands afire. Miracle spectacle. Quick spray of canvas sealant and the snick of a lighter. The fire lasts if you do it right. Flame blazing and bright. I would be in New York today if I could be anywhere. I’d like to watch the place go crashing down. People have been flooding the downtown core. Tourists who stepped out for a play have joined peaceful protest and been arrested. There will be a victory there somehow, over the internet even I can taste it. Stride down the middle of a street and be certain the fire goes nowhere near my hair. Silent but for the hiss of my fingers stretching out and dripping with heat. Heavy as swallowed stones. It’s not anger, no – it’s harder. Hate is for those who don’t have anything powerful.