Idling

I was offered a new job last week. I am pretty sure I'm going to take it, but won't until all the cogs are in place before I jump in.

A lot more of my time would be put into this job, and on top of the graduate program I'll start in a month, it will most likely stop me from interning until I adjust. I don't think interning is incredibly important and I could really do without it, our whole work system could do without it. It's not even apprenticeship, at least not in New York; it's our free labor that is required for later paid labor. Dumb for us, the workers, GREAT for the administration.

Alas, I probably need to do it. This new job is better, though I'd be away from a lot of my current co-working friends, I'd be with all new ones. I'm stuck, waiting for the cogs to be placed, unsure whether to attempt to bolster my (probable) illustrious career or take a better-paying, better job in the now.

I'm taking some time to make that choice. I have the contract signed, but in my hands. Waiting, in my hands, while I read plays by Sartre and watch Oz.


Alec told me that the ambient sounds of cities wreak havoc on the cortisone levels of its dwellers to the point of causing anxiety. His ride to the Public Advocate stresses him out because of the beeping and the braking, the sound of general movement of the city.

I rode Community bike back from whatever pier was screening Quicksilver, that Kevin Bacon, Laurence Fishburne movie about bike messengers, and listened to the stalled traffic. What got me was the sounds of the cars when no one was moving, the regular hum and grunt of the engines. I forgot how much sound, how much energy you make to idle.

Manipulative isn't the right word

Abby's coming over to check out the digs. I was cleaning, and then I realized I wasn't cleaning. I was rearranging. I wanted everything to look lived in. Not messy, but certainly not clean. I never want it to look clean, because then it would be clear that I cleaned. I wanted to appear as though I didn't live in squalor or disarray, but not cleanliness.

BUT, Abby knows this. She's seen my unprepared disarray in multiple states. She knows the messy-but-I-know-where-everything-is.

 I forgot that I want to appear things, all the time. I want to sweep my bangs off my forehead to keep from looking like someone who Wouldn't sweep his bangs off his forehead.
Also, they're all sweaty. Damn it's hot in the city, right?

I don't keep tabs on this kind of stuff. I don't notice, most of the time. I try not to notice how prepared I am. Like I'm my own proctor.

At some point, I just become what I appear to be. But I haven't stopped pretending not to care about appearing like I pretend to care about appearances.

On a different note, I've discovered in how many ways prose can be awful. Clear sentences, philosophers. Clear.

Please.