Monday, Monday August 22, 2011Posted by The Typist in 504, cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Godot, Moloch, Monday
The 18th Floor
Monday is a day of conversations at the copier and coffee pot everyone reluctant to start the work week in earnest, the elevators and coffee shop full at 8:15 and no one looks like an early rising lawyer. Any sense of excitement is centered in the past, in the game Saturday and how much fun Sunday. I don’t think we’re unique in this but I sense none of Monday’s hunched hustle I see when I visit ‘Moloch’s central precinct in Virginia, that current of urgency that sweeps the malingerers back to their desks.
I lived for years in the mid-Atlantic. While Richmond is well in from the coast I know the main difference in our summers is duration, the sultry Gulf Stream sweeping the Caribbean up the coast but the proximity of DC and Virginia to the Anglo metroplex that runs along I-95, country overrun with the army ants of of the Yankee work ethic, overwhelms the wise grasshoppers resting in the shade for an evening of music on the porch.
Nothing to be done, not even a convenient tree and rope. Nothing to be done except a flow chart, a report and meetings. If one is going to spend the day in existential angst the company of Estragon, the hope of Godot, would be something.
And so I stretch my cigarette break past the reasonable and write this instead, and dream of a carrot waiting at the end of the day after the dull turnips of work.
ESTRAGON: I can’t go on like this.
VLADIMIR: That’s what you think.