Though he loves to work and slave
For me every day
He’d be so much better off
If I went away
But why should I leave him?
Why should I go?
He’d be unhappy
Without me I know
I’ve got that man
Crazy for me
He’s funny that way
The Lad will soon be taking on management responsibilities. Not really grasping technology and the things he can do with it, I have always thought of his job as something mysterious: a mountain climber or an aviator or a tree doctor. It’s odd to think of him doing something I can understand.
In the meanwhile I sit at home searching for work. Like some Ogam tribesman I calculate the time I have left by the position of the sun. While it stays shyly just inside the window, hugging the radiator, I have plenty of time. But as the months go on it gets braver; it slides a little farther into the room every day. Eventually it will cover the carpet. Then my time will be up and it’s back to the administrative salt mines for me.
I write a little every day, and every day I write a little more. My brain is a jar that’s hard to open — I think I’m afraid of using up what’s in there, not realizing this is a magical jam that cannot ever be entirely eaten. This delicious, highly marketable, talented jam of my brain, this genius-flavored brain jam. In time I will spread it on everything and everything will taste like me.