Since 5:43pm yesterday evening, the sun and rain have been engaged in some sort of wild tango the sunshine whips the rain furiously across the dance floor, the rain stomps forcefully upon the sunshine. One moment is blue and gold, the next is streaked with gray. Lightning and thunder have me constantly looking over my shoulder and out onto the City rooftops. All that I can see is wet and droopy and confused. This type of weather makes me wonder what we've done wrong. Why are we being punished? I blame it on Elizabeth. This is what happens when people go on vacation.
Often when I think I have nothing to write about, I remember. I remember. I remember JA commenting on one of my entries:
"It's amazing how you can write 300 words about nothing, and make it seem important."
It's a bit of a shame about the blog: I often don't get started on an entry until late in the day. For instance, I'm starting this entry at 5:23pm. At 5:23pm, most people are on their ways home, while I'm here, feeling like I'm just getting started. And I put a lot of effort into these words. It takes some time. Even the shitty entries take awhile. I hope this doesn't sound like a complaint. I'm not complaining. I actually enjoy these circumstances. I'm relaxing now. Tarkio's keeping me awake with banjos and bells, and, aside from the random e-mail, there are no more interruptions to keep me from writing, which is what I love most. I like this time. I like 5:23pm. I like my job. Which gets me to something else I wanted to mention, had I had the opportunity to simply mention it when it came to mind, rather than beating around the clock like this:
I've heard some of the guys John Atkinson, Wes Phillips, Art Dudley talk about a certain feeling. It's a strange kind of, mildly irrational, but altogether real, bit of sadness topped off with a touch of guilt and/or regret that sneaks up on the audio reviewer when the time comes to return a piece of gear to its manufacturer.
Many of the commuters around me have the white plastic implants shoved into their innocent ears. All sorts of sounds come slithering out as we hold onto stainless steel. The F train sings a different song.