in the cabin time is an inanimate object
Stodgy inspectors are at the hospital this week and everybody is frenzied. Everybody’s collectively inhaling, inhaling, inhaling—there is no exhaling. Stiff. To prepare, like when the parents are about to come home from vacation and you’ve been partying the house to rags, I, as per instruction, have put the antenna on my CD player down. Everything must be at least 18 inches below the ceiling. I heaved up a box containing medical equipment that belongs to The Good Doctor and set it on my table already holding a shoddy printer, an ambitious little fax machine, a stack of books, papers, and manuscripts, and speakers. It looks like a storage basement. Boxes are not allowed on floors, I suppose so not to impede escape in case of fire or spontaneous nudity. I have memorized where the nearest fire extinguisher and pull box are. Should a fire occur, I will RACE.
Wear your name tag and do not prop open your door, they have ordered. Wearing the name tag in a closed private office, especially when a person (e.g. Sara) has little need to leave the office, except to visit the printer a few yards away or the bathroom just a few yards further, is asinine. I know who I am. Or do I? Am I even here? Hark, the hospital’s taken on existentialism. The philosophic mania! Doubt all and then doubt again, I think. Know thyself by isolation and stagnant air. I have removed the name tag, except for previously mentioned excursions into the hallway. I expect The Shining to occur by mid-afternoon—creepy twin girls appear on the file cabinet, illusory whiskey warms my body at the illusory bar in the company of people long dead, I chase my wife around with an ax and show my teeth. Like clockwork I race to the end of light.
Before I had status and before I had a pager…news from the tribe:
These hybrids ain’t cars: Mice with human brains. One scientist assures: "You will never ever have a little human trapped inside a mouse or monkey's body."
What’s the genetic makeup of cancer? Answer to come.
The ongoing misguidance of the government and its pussy marijuana challenged by a University of Massachusetts professor.
Wear your name tag and do not prop open your door, they have ordered. Wearing the name tag in a closed private office, especially when a person (e.g. Sara) has little need to leave the office, except to visit the printer a few yards away or the bathroom just a few yards further, is asinine. I know who I am. Or do I? Am I even here? Hark, the hospital’s taken on existentialism. The philosophic mania! Doubt all and then doubt again, I think. Know thyself by isolation and stagnant air. I have removed the name tag, except for previously mentioned excursions into the hallway. I expect The Shining to occur by mid-afternoon—creepy twin girls appear on the file cabinet, illusory whiskey warms my body at the illusory bar in the company of people long dead, I chase my wife around with an ax and show my teeth. Like clockwork I race to the end of light.
Before I had status and before I had a pager…news from the tribe:
These hybrids ain’t cars: Mice with human brains. One scientist assures: "You will never ever have a little human trapped inside a mouse or monkey's body."
What’s the genetic makeup of cancer? Answer to come.
The ongoing misguidance of the government and its pussy marijuana challenged by a University of Massachusetts professor.
4 Comments:
I don't see why inspectors need to make a hubbub about dumb little things like an antenna sticking up from your radio.
That prof sounds like he's up to somethin'! Also several news stories of late about old folk peddling their meds for profit.
name tags totally take away identity. the labeling crap gets to me, too. fork, i dub thee fork...and here's a name tag. do i even make any sense?
You know something that really used to crease me was when I was in the Navy Reserves. I hated being in it to begin with, but they had this crappy habit of calling me by my last name. It used to ruffle their feathers when I'd ask them to call me "Ivan." It was that one weekend per month crap, too, so I failed to see the need for decorum.
ps. thanks for stopping by. i'll pay you a visit once in a while as well.
glomgold--i don't see why either. but it's made this place cold and drear. after this week i'm letting loose. open door, high antenna, no name tag. yeah.
transience--yes. i am pleased to be fork. i look forward to seeing what being fork brings.
prego--thanks for stopping by. i shall not call you by your last name (which i do not know). such decorum seems silly to me. it's probably good it's there for the sake of stability on the other side; i just don't want to be in on it. oh well. stale air persists.
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