jacktellslies

Around the time that I first stumbled somewhat unwillingly onto Live Journal I was working as a secretary on the twenty-third floor of a building at Broad and Sansom. I've been paid to slit nearly rotten fish from anus to jaw; to kill crustaceans; to dig through industrial rubbish bins filled with slops gummed by the elderly, searching for lost teeth; and to show glimpses of teenaged skin or brief displays of homosexuality for the sort of men who loiter in the car parks of suburban malls. Secretarial work was, by far, the worst job I've ever had. I had no office of my own, and thus no window, but when I'd step into someone else's office to deliver a letter or retrieve a file, I'd stare out, more envious than I could possibly explain of the construction workers strutting about on the roofs of the buildings below me. They could feel the sun. They could see the city. They moved and built things, and grew tough and tan and well muscled. And they were paid for it!

My yoga class switched studios. I like the new one. It is at a proper yoga studio, which means that in future I'll be surrounded by willowy young women rather than blank gym rats. It's closer to home and much closer to work, too. I was midway through class today before I realised just where I was. I was in the building crowned by the roof at which I used to stare, wondering what it might feel like to work with one's body, one's hands, to survey the city from a place where it couldn't crush you.

How foolish it feels to admit that what I'm searching for is freedom, that I hope I'm closer than I was when I was twenty! Well then. I toe the precipice, my eyes on the sky.

I work long hours, and that does not trouble me much. I dislike it, however, when I must rush from work to some other thing, or leave when my shift is done but there is yet more to do because I have another appointment. I run home from work or fencing in order to catch something barely approximating enough sleep before I dash off to work, or yoga and then work again. I hate the feeling that when I rest there is some other thing I ought to be accomplishing.

I suppose this means I'm doing too much. I've weighed my options, and scaling back seems preferable to developing an unsavoury addiction. I may change my mind later.

However, for now, for my own reference, my priorities would seem to be the following, in no particular order:

Work.
Fencing.
Yoga.
Cook and learn about food. Brew closet booze.
Spend time with friends.
Breathe. Take baths. Sleep.

I'd been rather excited about gardening, but for various reasons, not least of which being lack of sufficient sunlight, I'll have to abandon my grand hopes and content myself with my houseplants. I like sewing, and I'd like to improve, but I think for now it shall have to be an occasional experiment rather than a course of study. Knitting, playing the accordion, I'll long for you a little, but I can wait. I'll have you eventually. I'd hoped to write here more often, too. Ah, well.