Tuesday, February 01, 2005
I swear, every day is like this
Ah, the exponential decay of time within the work day. Arriving in the morning, everything whirring and humming, cruising along with the mental momentum accrued from a sleep lasting all night. Work gets done, people get seen, emails get flung across the internets and requests get serviced. The day seems a golden time.
The motion is not self-propelling however, and by mid-morning, some momentum has been lost, but not enough to slow the system down. The engine oil may have a slight discoloration, but it lubricates well enough and the pistons keep firing, keeping the motor moving until lunch time. The auric spirit of the morning has been transformed into a silver, just as bright, but not as satisfying nor of the same worth.
Boistered by the conversation around the chow trough, filled up with the regenerative power of Sandwich and Pudding, the cogs and sprockets are back to operating at full capacity, moving the electronic, metaphorical papers that comprise the inner workings of Business. Life seems well, but in truth the zeitgeist has more in common with iron pyrite than with any nobler metal, a bright veneer hiding its true lack of value.
While lunch filled up and topped off, it was not the panacea it seemed to be. Yes, fuel was added, but it was more like the stingy addition of five bucks worth of gas, or in the worst cases, such as lunch meetings involving Vietnamese noodle bowls. Those massive vats of Asian pasta and miscellaneous cow bits are crafty, often threatening to throw the utility carpet of drowsiness over the fires of production. Still, the machinery is undeterred and it forges on, albeit now at a slow, methodical plod rather than the ferocious gallop it commenced the work day at. As a starlet gives up the screen for better paying menial labour, so too has the spirit of the work day shed off its bright exterior for a solid, utilitarian diligence. It takes the form of humble iron now.
Inescapably, the day churns to a close, and less than an hour, but a shallow crack remains of the once mighty and expansive depths of time that lay before the dawn. The machine struggles now. The oil, once plentiful and smooth, then made sullied and thick, is now black, turpid and laden with grit. The pistons no longer slide effortlessly in their housings, but rather grind forcefully against the engine walls, screaming their defiance to all who would listen. Barely able to move under its own power, it takes the enticement and allure of the bus ride home to get anything done. Now totally without any form of merit, everything seems valueless, unworthy of even looking at, let alone starting to work on. Like an Anti-Midas, the gold has been turned to shit.
(The epilogue to all of this is, of course, that once home and fed, offered the chance to play some video games and given a good night's rest, you still continue to get up for work when you feel like shit the night before.) ¶ 5:21 p.m.
Ah, the exponential decay of time within the work day. Arriving in the morning, everything whirring and humming, cruising along with the mental momentum accrued from a sleep lasting all night. Work gets done, people get seen, emails get flung across the internets and requests get serviced. The day seems a golden time.
The motion is not self-propelling however, and by mid-morning, some momentum has been lost, but not enough to slow the system down. The engine oil may have a slight discoloration, but it lubricates well enough and the pistons keep firing, keeping the motor moving until lunch time. The auric spirit of the morning has been transformed into a silver, just as bright, but not as satisfying nor of the same worth.
Boistered by the conversation around the chow trough, filled up with the regenerative power of Sandwich and Pudding, the cogs and sprockets are back to operating at full capacity, moving the electronic, metaphorical papers that comprise the inner workings of Business. Life seems well, but in truth the zeitgeist has more in common with iron pyrite than with any nobler metal, a bright veneer hiding its true lack of value.
While lunch filled up and topped off, it was not the panacea it seemed to be. Yes, fuel was added, but it was more like the stingy addition of five bucks worth of gas, or in the worst cases, such as lunch meetings involving Vietnamese noodle bowls. Those massive vats of Asian pasta and miscellaneous cow bits are crafty, often threatening to throw the utility carpet of drowsiness over the fires of production. Still, the machinery is undeterred and it forges on, albeit now at a slow, methodical plod rather than the ferocious gallop it commenced the work day at. As a starlet gives up the screen for better paying menial labour, so too has the spirit of the work day shed off its bright exterior for a solid, utilitarian diligence. It takes the form of humble iron now.
Inescapably, the day churns to a close, and less than an hour, but a shallow crack remains of the once mighty and expansive depths of time that lay before the dawn. The machine struggles now. The oil, once plentiful and smooth, then made sullied and thick, is now black, turpid and laden with grit. The pistons no longer slide effortlessly in their housings, but rather grind forcefully against the engine walls, screaming their defiance to all who would listen. Barely able to move under its own power, it takes the enticement and allure of the bus ride home to get anything done. Now totally without any form of merit, everything seems valueless, unworthy of even looking at, let alone starting to work on. Like an Anti-Midas, the gold has been turned to shit.
(The epilogue to all of this is, of course, that once home and fed, offered the chance to play some video games and given a good night's rest, you still continue to get up for work when you feel like shit the night before.) ¶ 5:21 p.m.
