I’m in something of a sour mood. I’m writing from my desk, my “work desk” I suppose… and although I so often feel that there can be no true words written here… or that the words that I do write fall lifeless to the ground… I still feel like writing.
I don’t exactly know what the grievance is… I suppose that I lost a great deal of my time last night being paraded out in front of paying customers… like some kitchen staff berated and chastised because someone found a fly in their soup. The new monied are a vulgar sort. The right to have ones grievances listened to is a right of the paying customer. And when we went from petty, to even more petty, to the most trifling of grievances, I felt they were now drunk on this new found power… the right to have ones grievances listened to. And so we have to adopt some sanctimonious air, and the mood turns solemn, and we attempt to console… but of course no one is really in need of consoling… it’s the ritual that matters. It’s as much a cathartic exercise. It’s a chance for the new monied to see and really feel how high they’ve climbed… and they still get a little dizzy when find themselves at these heights.
To sit silently… off to one side… as concerns are voiced… I scarcely know what went on last night. How does one leave such a situation without being in some sense marred by the experience? I do feel a little unclean… a little humiliated perhaps, having unwittingly taken part in the spectacle.
I suppose through it all… I wondered… how I could end up here… what kind of series of wrong turns I must have made to wind up here…
Tremendous feelings of ennui. Waiting for my little piece of freedom, that clean exhalation.