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Jul. 12th, 2005 10:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonI look at the Nat'l Weather Service website, and the forecast highs for the next few days run 90 ... 92 ... 90 ... 90 ... 92 ...
It might get down into the mid-80s by Monday, but that far out it's a crapshoot. Hell, it could stay like this into August.
At work, the upheavals of the past months have settled into a steady simmer of uncertainty about our future, collectively and individually; the refrain is we don't know, we don't know, we just don't know. Some clarity might emerge by December, perhaps, or maybe not.
The current state of existence is like being becalmed in the Sargasso; heavy, motionless, suffocating, paralyzed. The feeling is something must change, but no change is foreseeable. And in the meantime, the rock has to be pushed up the mountain every day. One must rise at 4:30 to begin the chores of airing out the house (opening doors and windows, stationing fans), before sealing everything up at 7:30, or the place will be unbearable come evening. One must head into work, and carry out the chores of administrivia, and morale-boosting of one's staff, and meetings and memoranda. And then head home to the house that is, despite one's early morning efforts, sweltering and airless.
Next door, somebody is dribbling a basketball over and over, in the thick darkness. No sense of a game being played, baskets being shot, points scored. Just the thud thud thud, over and over, audible even over the roar of the fans pushing the heavy sullen air around.
And so to bed.
It might get down into the mid-80s by Monday, but that far out it's a crapshoot. Hell, it could stay like this into August.
At work, the upheavals of the past months have settled into a steady simmer of uncertainty about our future, collectively and individually; the refrain is we don't know, we don't know, we just don't know. Some clarity might emerge by December, perhaps, or maybe not.
The current state of existence is like being becalmed in the Sargasso; heavy, motionless, suffocating, paralyzed. The feeling is something must change, but no change is foreseeable. And in the meantime, the rock has to be pushed up the mountain every day. One must rise at 4:30 to begin the chores of airing out the house (opening doors and windows, stationing fans), before sealing everything up at 7:30, or the place will be unbearable come evening. One must head into work, and carry out the chores of administrivia, and morale-boosting of one's staff, and meetings and memoranda. And then head home to the house that is, despite one's early morning efforts, sweltering and airless.
Next door, somebody is dribbling a basketball over and over, in the thick darkness. No sense of a game being played, baskets being shot, points scored. Just the thud thud thud, over and over, audible even over the roar of the fans pushing the heavy sullen air around.
And so to bed.