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Sep 20, 2011
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 14, 2011
Aug 9, 2011
Jul 30, 2011
Jul 23, 2011
A Wayward Peppercorn
There was no time to find my tools* so, using just my index finger and the kind of quick thinking and ingenuity human beings find themselves capable of while under intense pressure, I moved the out of place peppercorn back into what was deemed 'that awkward blank space'. That is, with nerves of steel, love and an unflinching eye for the composition of things like peppercorns, I was able to place a single green wayward peppercorn rightfully back amongst its peppercorn-neighbors, once and for all.
That was Thursday. It was now Friday and the peppercorns were camera-ready. Looking as though they had been casually, hurriedly, perhaps even accidentally strewn across a cutting board, the peppercorns added a welcome nod to reality in what otherwise appeared to be a pristine, state-of-the-art kitchen (but what was really a hot, muggy, dusty studio). No, I don't think I could have been any happier. I mean, if someone has to style the peppercorns--and you know, somebody does have to and, let's face it, I have that down--why shouldn't it be me?
Of course, I still don't know how long this project is expected to last. I'm afraid to ask anyone for fear that pinning down such information will somehow put a crack in this latest of employment related magic spells. Thus, it is wisely and rationally that I've decided to ignore the issue of deadlines altogether and instead simply keep showing up. I'll simply keep showing up and they'll simply keep paying me. It's so reasonable I can't believe I never thought of it before.
I already miss it, though. This job. I miss it and I even envy the situation as though I'm somewhat outside my own body and all the glamor of peppercorn staging were actually happening to someone else. It's as though my brain has found a new hack wherein I circumvent the terrible experience of being laid off by jumping directly to the part where I'm standing in the unemployment line:
Seriously. I really do.
*paperclip
That was Thursday. It was now Friday and the peppercorns were camera-ready. Looking as though they had been casually, hurriedly, perhaps even accidentally strewn across a cutting board, the peppercorns added a welcome nod to reality in what otherwise appeared to be a pristine, state-of-the-art kitchen (but what was really a hot, muggy, dusty studio). No, I don't think I could have been any happier. I mean, if someone has to style the peppercorns--and you know, somebody does have to and, let's face it, I have that down--why shouldn't it be me?
Of course, I still don't know how long this project is expected to last. I'm afraid to ask anyone for fear that pinning down such information will somehow put a crack in this latest of employment related magic spells. Thus, it is wisely and rationally that I've decided to ignore the issue of deadlines altogether and instead simply keep showing up. I'll simply keep showing up and they'll simply keep paying me. It's so reasonable I can't believe I never thought of it before.
I already miss it, though. This job. I miss it and I even envy the situation as though I'm somewhat outside my own body and all the glamor of peppercorn staging were actually happening to someone else. It's as though my brain has found a new hack wherein I circumvent the terrible experience of being laid off by jumping directly to the part where I'm standing in the unemployment line:
I really miss this, my new job!
Seriously. I really do.
*paperclip
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 11, 2011
Saturday
Oscar sat in the kitchen window watching his Aunt cook breakfast. With his long arms out-stretched in a yawn, the window panes situated just so and the morning sun behind him, an oddly convincing crucifix shaped shadow fell on the narrow space on the floor between him and where his Aunt stood at the stove. He laughed at how unplanned it was. He knew better, though, than to point this sort of thing out to his Aunt, who at that moment was searching for something in a dark cabinet. She mouthed something incredulously to herself regarding her missing spices. Oscar leaned forward adjusting his shadow into various poses, inadvertently half-mooning the alley in the process. A truck honked its horn. The clanking sounds of the kitchen reached a crescendo: It was time to eat. The odor of sausage, onions and peppers mixed with the cloy of dryer sheets and a near-by bucket of hot water and Pine Sol punctuated the cramped, clean quarters. Oscars' Aunt put the bread and the milk on the table and shook her head at her laughing nephew, "Could you please put a shirt on?".
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