Can’t take it gentle on the exit end of a bender’s tumult. On Mondays the masks go back on, the inbox gets emptied, the emails get answered. The paper trail, and other worms without heads or tails, resume their devouring crawls to replace the anachronously named things they are replacing. They are the desperate, content-less comatose sine-waves of signals that tell the world you are here, you are an employee, you are busy about being employed. It’s a strange thing, working, almost zen, almost buddhist in its circularity. “Here I am” is all you have to say, a million times a day, nothing more, no further justification for that paycheck demanded, and that’s a day’s work put in, that’s a livelihood justified. We’re all little lighthouses of the anti-enlightenment, little beacons going off with a steady beep and flash in our cubes in the bad, 25-year-old recirculated office air, aging like isotopes in the shrinking, colorless corridors between anonymous Mondays and Fridays. We’re all little interdependent rings in a drag-fishing net, drowning the dolphins of opportunity, little plastic rings in a six pack, singing We Are the World elbow in elbow and tearing the gills off our food’s mothers and fathers.
Good morning, working world.