lyrical, epical, dramatic
< >

Dec 02 2002 Kelly Norton
10am lyrical — I stare indifferently at the row of boxes, each containing a different coffee flavor. The trick to indifference is to assign a system that hides its own randomness through similarly arbitrary processes. I, therefore, am unable to have Caffé Midnight as I had it last Thursday when I was not near so fatigued as I am currently, and French Roast sounds too far too Germanic for a day named for the Moon. Hazelnut reminds me of Christmas baskets overflowing with chunky walnuts, which reminds me of fire and makes me sleepy, so I pass to the next box which is Hearty Blend. Hearty is adjective that should be reserved for the words soup and appetite. Finally, I take a single serving cup of Columbia Supremo, since it reminds me of a troubling book I once read with a purple cover, and place it into the machine which clicks and hisses to life with the touch of a button. I pour in day old milk and sugar and head for my desk.
12pm epical — The meeting has run long and it is becoming increasingly hard to follow the tally of numbers that are scrawled across the whiteboard. Our speaker's enthusiasm is beginning to seem monotone and there are matters of some mystical importance still unslashed on the agenda. I interject my opinion whenever I feel I am sufficiently aware of the subject, and then let my mind wander off again. The speakers words fade to a mumble and only occasionally an interesting word slides into my daydream: “valuation”. An word deserving of a limerick:
The publican gave his valuation
To a beer sitting in isolation
His upper lip curled
He damn near hurled
But declared it above expectation.
“(mumble, mumble) … contract”
She handed the John a contract
An agreement before he made contact
In haste he did own
To give up his throne
Now the king lives in the projects.
5pm dramatic — A line of cars extending back at least a mile slowly inches forward and into the curve where an eighteen wheeler has jackknifed trying to avoid an aluminum ladder laying in the second lane. From the silence of an office window, all the weaving headlights seem peaceful. Even when a Ford Focus rear ends a Mercedes while trying to determine the cause of the holdup; the scene seems choreographed. Order is the summation of a thousand things chaotic.
0
0